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Talking over the Cable Message 


Page 18 




PHILIP ST. JOHN 


\ 


BY 

MRS. MARY E. METHENY. 

u 



PHILADELPHIA : 

PKESBYTERIAN BOARD OF PUBLICATION 
AND SABBATH-SCHOOL WORK, 

No. 1334 CHESTNUT STBEET. 


Fx.7 

.fAs&S‘f 

F 

coi>y ^ 


COPYRIGHT, 1889, BY 

THE TRUSTEES OK THE 

PRESBYTERIAN BOARD OF PUBLICATION 
AND SABBATH-SCHOOL WORK. 


ALL BIGHTS RESERVED. 


Westcott & Thomson, 
Stereotypers and Electrotypers, Philada. 


PREFACE. 


My apology for the following pages is 
found in the words of Dr. Pierson : ‘‘ There 
is buried in jewelry, gold and silver plate 
and useless ornamentation, within Christian 
homes, enough to build fifty thousand vessels, 
ballast them with Bibles, crowd them with 
missionaries. I have endeavored to portray 
some of the crying needs of our day and 
generation in our own land. If the blessing 
of Jesus Christ rests on him who gives a cup 
of cold water to the thirsty, how manifold a 
blessing might be received by our moneyed 
Christians if only these imprisoned eighty 
million pounds were set free and sent abroad 
to bless the needy millions starving both in 
body and soul? I have not touched upon 
the destitution, both bodily and spiritual, in 
heathen lands, but the thoughtful reader 


4 


PREFACE. 


will readily conclude that if under the 
shadow of our churches and schools, in the 
light of our boasted civilization and in spite 
of all our benevolent institutions there is still 
such wretchedness to relieve, it must exist in 
almost infinite abundance in those lands 
which for ages have lain in heathenish dark- 
ness. Wealthy Christians, the call is to you, 
now, while the present generation is on the 
earth, or your opportunity for making 
‘friends with the mammon of unrighteous- 
ness ’ is gone for ever. If you are not will- 
ing to become a fanatic, are you willing to 
give as ‘ God hath prospered you ’ — the gos- 
pel rule ? Are you willing to give all you 
are able to give? If you are, the millen- 
nium will soon dawn in all its glory. Then 

“‘His large and great dominion shall 
From sea to sea extend ; 

It from the river shall reach forth 
Unto earth’s utmost end. 

Yea, all the mighty kings on earth 
Bow down before Him shall, 

And all the nations of the earth 
Do service to him shall. 

His name for ever shall endure, 

Last like the sun it shall ; 

Men shall be blessed in him, and blest 
All nations shall him call.’ ” 


CONTENTS. 

\ 


CHAPTER 1. 

PAGK 

In the Orient 9 

CHAPTER IL 

A Family Conclave 18 

CHAPTER III. 

The Voyage 25 

CHAPTER IV. 

At Home 35 

CHAPTER V. 

The Ruthvens 41 

CHAPTER VI. 

Breakers 48 

5 


6 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER VIL 

PAGE 

They of his Own Household 57 

CHAPTER VIII. 

Overboard 67 

CHAPTER IX. 

The New Home 75 

CHAPTER X. 

“Mitherin’ the Bairns” 88 

CHAPTER XL 

Echoes of Wedding-Bells 98 

CHAPTER XII. 

The First Blow 110 

CHAPTER XIII. 

A Reed or an Oak? 114 

CHAPTER XIV. 

St. John’s Schemes 123 

CHAPTER XV. 

A Waif 129 


CONTENTS. 


7 


CHAPTER XVr. 

PAGE 

At Madam Nettleby’s 140 

CHAPTER XVII. 

A Victim 151 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

Miss Arr 158 

CHAPTER XIX. 

Whims 165 

CHAPTER XX. 

The Workers at Home 182 

CHAPTER XXL 

A Club Dinner 198 

CHAPTER XXII. 

Lady Trent’s Experiment 209 

CHAPTER XXIII. 

Disappointment 216 

CHAPTER XXIV. 


A Father’s Duty . 


226 


8 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTEK XXV. 

PAGE 

A Storm and a Calm 236 

CHAPTER XXVL 

Soulless Corporations 251 

CHAPTER XXVII. 

The New Regime 259 

CHAPTER XXVIII. 

Justin A Surprised 275 

CHAPTER XXIX. 

A Misunderstanding 281 

CHAPTER XXX. 

In the Drifts 291 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


CHAPTEK I. 

IN THE ORIENT. 

T he blue Mediterranean stretched away to 
the horizon, which wore the pink flush 
of sunset. Dim in the distance lay the 
shadowy mountains. The room was plain, 
but home-like. Its white walls, devoid of 
paper, bore some good engravings and a 
very few oil-paintings. The flowers bloom- 
ing in every window gave it a cheery look. 

The only occupants of the room were two 
men. One was somewhat past middle age. 
Though his hair was still black as the raven’s 
wing, his shoulders were stooped as with a 
load of care, and his face was deeply lined. 
His features were sharp and his eyes dark 
and still full of fire. He sat beside the other, 
who reclined on an invalid-chair, gazing in- 
tently from the window. He was a young 


10 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


and handsome man of twenty-six. Bronzed 
with travel, yet where liis forehead was 
shaded from the sun his skin was white as a 
woman’s. He had that peculiar combination 
seen in some men of dark-brown hair and 
dark-blue eyes. His beard, too, was brown 
and silky. The hair just now was close- 
cropped. He was very thin, and there was 
about him a languor which told of recent 
illness. He raised his eyes to his friend’s 
face. 

‘‘ I almost wish this evening could last for 
ever,” he said ; I dread leaving you, doctor. 
I shall never forget these days. I shall often 
close my eyes and fancy I hear the swish- 
swash of the waves and see the water’s blue 
expanse stretching away all boundless, and 
the pink flush touching its very surface. 
Oh, it would be easy to be good here with 
you, doctor, but you don’t know what I shall 
have to go through with when I go home.” 

“ Perhaps I know more than you think,” 
said Dr. Heathcote. ‘‘ You are engaged, are 
you not ?” 

‘‘ How did you guess ?” asked the other, in 
surprise. 


IN THE ORIENT 


11 


‘‘ I did not ‘ guess ’ at all,” said the doctor, 
smiling ; “ you told me a good many things 
when you were sick.” 

‘‘Well,” said St. John, after a pause, “I 
do not think I need keep anything from you. 
The lady to whom I have been engaged for 
two years is Miss Corinna Euthven. She is 
everything to me, but I fear the step I took 
last Sabbath will build up a barrier between 
her and me.” 

“ Is she not a Christian ?” asked the doc- 
tor. 

“I never asked myself the question be- 
fore,” said St. John. “ She is a member of 
Dr. AtwelFs church, as are also my sisters, 
but in all our intercourse we have never 
spoken one word together on religion. In- 
deed, it seems to me that we considered it a 
matter that concerned only one day of the 
week ; the other six were given to the world. 
I speak for myself, and, so far as I know, 
the rest were like me : God was not in all 
their thoughts. Life has been an incessant 
pursuit of pleasure and a continual disap- 
pointment.” 

“ And now ?” said the doctor. 


12 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


“Now I desire a better country/’ 

“Well,” said Dr. Heathcote, “perhaps 
you can convince 'Miss Ruthven that there 
is a better life than she knows of ; and you 
can make the world all about you better. 
You have abundant opportunity, and you 
will find plenty of need. A man with your 
means has great responsibilities; you can 
use in his service what God has given you. 
She is well off too?” 

“ Yes ; her father is a merchant-prince. 
I will take your advice and try what will 
come of it ; but if I have to choose between 
happiness in this world and my Master, I 
must follow him.” 

“ He will help you to do it,” said the doc- 
tor. “ Here come Hattie and the children. 
We must not keep you up late on this last 
night.” 

Mrs. Heathcote and the little ones — two 
girls and a boy — now came in. Little Maud 
took her chair and settled herself beside Mr. 
St. John. Like a benediction the psalm 
rose on the still air: 


I love the Lord because my voice and prayers he did hear ; 
I, while I live, will call on Him who bowed to me his ear. 


IN THE ORIENT. 


13 


Of death the cords and sorrows did about me compass round ; 
The pains of hell took hold on me, I grief and trouble found. 

“ Upon the name of God the Lord then did I call, and say, 

‘ Deliver thou my soul, O Lord, I do thee humbly pray.’ 

God merciful and righteous is — yea, gracious is our Lord ; 
God saves the meek ; I was brought low : he did me help 
afford.’ ” 

\ 

When they came to the line, 

“ O thou, my soul, do thou return unto thy quiet rest,” 


St. Jolin^s eyes and voice filled with tears, 
and he could not sing. The otlier voices 
went on : 

“ O thou, my soul, do thou return unto thy quiet rest. 

For largely, lo ! the Lord to thee his bounty hath expressed ; 
For my distressed soul from death delivered was by thee : 
Thou didst my mourning eyes from tears, my feet from fall- 
ing, free.” 

The doctor read a portion of Scripture 
and then lifted up his heart in fervent prayer, 
especially for their brother who had been 
brought so providentially into their family — 
that he might have a safe journey and that 
he might be led in a plain path. The little 
company soon afterward separated. 

The next morning, as soon as it was light. 


14 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


Maud was up, flattening her nose against the 
window-glass to see if the steamer was in 
port. A little sound of dismay burst from 
her lips : 

“ Oh it is here, and Mr. St. John will go.” 

Soon every one was astir, and by and by 
all the preliminaries were over and Dr. 
Heathcote and his patient stood on the deck 
of the steamer. 

‘‘I suppose there is nothing more that I 
can do for you ?” said the former. “ I think 
you will gain strength every day now, and 
when you reach New York you will be 
quite well.” 

“ Thanks to you, doctor, you good Samari- 
tan ! Do you know what is always in my 
mind when I look at you?” 

The doctor shook his head. 

‘ I was a stranger and ye took me in. I 
was sick and ye visited me.’ ” 

The whistle sounded, the anchor was 
drawn up ; Dr. Heathcote went over the side 
of the vessel, into the boat which was in 
waiting for him, and Philip St. John was on 
his homeward way. He was the only son 
of a New York millionaire. His father had 


IN THE ORIENT. 


15 


died soon after he had attained his majority, 
and his mother before his recollection. His 
elder sisters, Barbara and Frances, were mar- 
ried, and were living in luxurious homes of 
their own. Justina was the youngest of the 
family, and had just completed her educa- 
tion. Philip had, as he told Dr. Heathcote, 
spent his life thus far in the pursuit of pleas- 
ure. After finishing his collegiate course he 
had gone abroad ; the last two years had been 
spent in Europe. A few months before we 
form his acquaintance he had set out to 
make the tour of Egypt and the Holy Land ; 
in going by land up the coast he had con- 
tracted malarial fever. With no companion 
but a native dragoman, he entered a miser- 
able coast-town, utterly unable to proceed 
any farther. The dragoman conducted him 
to the khan, where Philip threw himself on 
the dirty, uncomfortable bed assigned to 
him. He soon became delirious, and the 
prudent dragoman, finding him growing 
rapidly worse, helped himself to the con- 
tents ^f his portmanteau and disappeared. 
The innkeeper, like all of his class, had a 
horror of a death in his house, and was very 


16 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


anxious to get Philip out of it before matters 
should come to a crisis ; but, being unable to 
understand his language, it became necessary 
to find some one who did so. To this end 
he brought all the few foreigners whom the 
town contained, but none of them proved 
any more able than himself to make out 
the stranger’s language. At last, at his wit’s 
end, he bethought himself of the American 
doctor. Dr. Heathcote went immediately, 
and found him to be a compatriot. The only 
clue to the sick man’s identity was a card in 
one of his pockets containing his name and 

address — ^‘Philip St. John, 339 Street, 

New York City.” The doctor had a rough 
litter brought, and had the patient carried to 
his own house. It was five days later that 
he woke from what seemed to him a troubled 
dream. He found himself in a cozy, home- 
like room, watched over by an American 
lady. He had not strength enough even to 
wonder where he was, but looked at her with 
a weak, child-like smile. For several days 
longer he seemed quite content to lie and be 
waited on, but after this he began to inquire 
where he was and how he had come there. 


IN THE ORIENT. 


17 




From that time his improvement was rapid. 
As soon as he was able to bear it Dr. Heath- 
cote introduced the subject which to him was 
all-important. It is needless to recount all 
the steps by which Philip St. John was led 
to trust in the Saviour of men. Suffice it to 
say that on the Sabbath previous to his sail- 
ing he had openly professed him before the 
little mission congregation. And now he 
was going home fully determined to devote 
himself and all that was his to the service 
of Christ. 


2 


CHAPTER II. 


A FAMILY CONCLAVE. 

S EATED in a luxurious morning-room in 
a palatial residence in New York were 
four ladies, evidently of the elite. Two of 
them resembled each other enough to prove 
them sisters ; both were tall, dark, fine-look- 
ing women. The third was an English 
guest, and the fourth, though her eyes were 
of the same hue as those of Philip St. John, 
unlike him had golden hair. These were 
Barbara Fortescue, Frances Esterbrook, Lady 
Adelaide Trent and Justina St. John. 

Mrs. Fortescue had just received a tele- 
gram from her brother announcing his sail- 
ing by the Inman steamer next due. 

“You see, we are very fond of Philip,’’ 
she said, with a smile. “ He is our only 
brother, and he has been away so long that 
there will be great rejoicing when he comes 
home.” 


18 


A FAMILY COFCLAVF. 


19 


‘‘ Especially,” said Mrs. Esterbrook, “ since 
he has been so very ill. He was seized with 
fever on the Syrian coast, and barely escaped 
with his life.” 

“ And all alone ?” asked Lady Adelaide. 

‘‘Yes; he had taken a misanthropic fit, 
and would not travel with a party. The 
consequence was that his dragoman robbed 
him and left him ill in a wretched inn. An 
American physician — a missionary — residing 
in the place heard of him and took him to his 
own house.” 

“ Horrible !” exclaimed Lady Adelaide. 
“ It is little less than a miracle that he re- 
covered at all. I have seen what those 
places are like. The East is bad enough 
when one is well, but it is intolerable when 
one is ill. I can fancy what he must have 
suffered. — You have never made the trip, 
have you?” she asked the others. 

“ No,” answered Mrs. Fortescue for the 
rest of the party. 

“ You ride over horrible roads day after 
day on the most miserable animals. Then 
the food is execrable ; the inns are entirely 
devoid of comforts, swarming with vermin 


20 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


and dirty. Even the thought of it makes 
me shudder.’’ 

I imagine,” laughed Mrs. Esterbrook, 

that the missionary-physician’s house would 
not be much more congenial to Philip than an 
Arab khan ; he is a sybarite and a thorough 
society-man. I think I see his fastidious 
lordship confined to missionary diet and 
compelled to listen to preaching every day 
in the week!” 

‘‘How can you laugh?” said Justina, re- 
proachfully. “It seems to me as though 
Philip were coming back to us from the 
dead, and I am sure we can never be grate- 
ful enough to Dr. Heathcote for saving his 
life.” 

“ Yes,” said Mrs. Fortescue ; “ we must do 
something for him. Yet I agree with Fran- 
ces that Philip will be glad to get back into 
society again. I am puzzled over something 
in his last letter ; he speaks in a way so un- 
like himself — in a vein of sadness. His ill- 
ness, he says, has changed his whole future, 
but I suppose he was still feeling the depres- 
sion of fever.” 

How could the speaker know that Philip’s 


A FAMILY CONCLAVE, 


21 


words were a result of exaltation instead of 
depression ? 

“Well, we have been in a state of great 
anxiety ever since the first letter came from 
Dr. Heathcote, and it is such a relief to 
know that Philip is really on his way,’’ said 
Mrs. Esterbrook. “ But we must not trouble 
Lady Adelaide with our family-talk.” 

“ I assure you,” said Lady Adelaide, “ I 
am much interested in all you have told me. 
But,” she added, rising, “if you will ex- 
cuse me, I will write some letters before din- 
ner.” 

“ Certainly,” said her hostess. — “ Barbara,” 
said Mrs. Esterbrook, “ what do you think 
Philip meant when he spoke of the whole 
current of his life being changed ? Do you 
think it is possible that he has seen some one 
who has caused a change in his feelings to- 
ward Corinna?” 

“ I do not know, but I do not think he is 
likely to have met any one there whom he 
would care to install as mistress of his home. 
What do you think of Lady Adelaide?” 

“ What !” exclaimed Mrs. Esterbrook. 
“And break with Corinna?” 


22 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


She is a better parti than even Corinna, 
and I don’t believe Corinna would break her 
heart.” 

‘‘ I think it is shameful of you to talk so,” 
burst out Justina, while a little scarlet spot 
flamed on either cheek, and she emphasized 
her words with a stamp of her foot. “ Just 
as if Philip and Corinna were puppets to do 
your bidding ! You know they have loved 
each other for years, and yet you talk about 
coming between them and about Philip 
forming a new attachment just as you would 
talk about changing your cook or your foot- 
man.” 

Barbara laughed; Corinna was not a fa- 
vorite with her. 

You are only a child yet, Justina,” she 
said. “ When you have lived longer, you will 
see that we are really considering Philip’s 
interests.” 

“And what about Corinna’s intereste?” 
asked Justina, ironically. 

“ Corinna can take care of her own inter- 
ests, my little snowdrop,” said Frances, 
dryly. “If I am not much mistaken, she 
would consider Sir Balph Trent quite as 


J FAMILY CONCLAVE. 


23 


well worth her attention as plain Philip St. 
John.’’ 

“Frances!” There was positive horror 
in Justina’s tone. “ Lady Adelaide’s father ! 
An old man like that!” 

“ You have seen yourself how she receives 
his attentions.” 

“ ‘ Attentions ’ ! But I never dreamed of 
looking at them in that light, and neither, I 
am sure, did Corinna. I can’t listen any 
longer to such talk ; it seems like treason to 
Philip and she rose and left the room. 

“Poor little innocent!” sighed Frances; 
“ the bloom is on her peach yet. But I too 
must go, Barbara. Let me know just as soon 
as Philip comes and the elder sisters bade 
each other good-bye. 

Corinna Buthven too had received a tele- 
gram from Philip, and his home-coming was 
the subject of discussion in the Buthven 
family also. Corinna Buthven was a girl of 
whom any lover might be proud as she stood 
now before the long mirror and gazed at the 
reflection it gave back. The large dark 
eyes, the shapely head crowned with its 
braids of glossy dark hair, the beautiful 


24 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


features softened by the thought of Philip’s 
return, made a lovely picture. 

‘‘ Will he know me, do you think, Hilda?” 
she asked, half laughing, as she turned to 
her sister. 

Hilda laughed, a low, musical laugh. 

Haven’t you sent him a new photograph 
every month?” she said. “You have not 
given him much time to forget you. I am 
sure of one thing, Cora : he has seen nothing 
half so beautiful since he went away. I can 
almost hear the wedding-bells. I half wish 
he would stay away ; for when he comes, we 
must lose you.” 


CHAPTER III. 

THE VOYAGE. 

M eanwhile, Philip st. John, as the 

doctor had foretold, had gained strength 
every day. He was trying, though it was 
new work to him, to redeem the time. Soon 
after leaving England he observed a young 
— very young — man who sat opposite to him 
at the table. He seemed to be an amiable 
youth, but quite inexperienced. St. John 
noticed him particularly because of the man 
who sat beside him. Showily and hand- 
somely dressed, there was something sinister 
in this man’s countenance. St. John once 
or twice caught a sign from him to some one 
across the table, and from what he could 
hear of the low-toned conversation he un- 
derstood that he was fishing the young fel- 
low out. He did not at the time think that 
he had any design beyond that of amusing 
himself. A day or two later he saw his vis- 

25 


26 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


d-vis arm in arm with the sinister-counte- 
nanced man and a burly, red-faced individ- 
ual ; they went down to the saloon together, 
and the incident passed out of Philipps mind. 
But that very night it came back to him 
with ominous force. As he sat in the 
shadow near the stern of the ship two forms 
paused near him. 

You are a fool, Jim !” said one of the 
speakers, testily. ‘‘ You would spoil every- 
thing if left to yourself.’’ 

‘‘You could have had his fifty dollars 
to-night,” said the other, sulkily. 

“Yes, but it isn’t fifty I want. I know 
all about it ; he has five thousand with him 
for his firm — more fools they to trust it with 
such a greenhorn ! — and I can get it all if 
you’ll keep quiet. He must win some at 
first, to give him a taste for the game.” 

St. John instinctively felt that the subject 
of the conversation was the youth who sat 
opposite him at the table, and he determined 
to save him and disappoint the gamblers. 
They turned and walked away. 

The next morning, at the break fast- table, 
St. John addressed a few remarks to the 


THE VOYAGE. 


27 


young man as a prelude to making an ac- 
quaintance. After the meal was over he in- 
vited him to his cabin. The youth was quite 
communicative ; he told Philip that his name 
was Henry Deland, and that he was travel- 
ing for Bow & Arc — his trial-trip, he said. 
St. John did not introduce the subject of 
card-playing at all, but contrived to keep the 
young man in his own company much of the 
day. As a matter of course. Deland, being in 
commercial circles, knew who St. John was 
as soon as he heard his name, and felt rather 
flattered that the young millionaire should 
single him out for notice. 

‘‘ Who is the man who sits beside you 
at table?” inquired St. John, casually, just 
before dinner. 

‘‘ He gives his name as Outram, but 
really I do not know much about him,” said 
Deland. 

“ I do not like him,” said St. John ; “ he 
looks to me like a professional gambler.” 

Deland flushed. 

‘'He is hardly a good-enough player for 
that,” he remarked. 

“Professionals don’t always show their 


28 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


hand at first/’ answered St. John. I think 
it is a shame, the way these steamship com- 
panies permit gambling to go on on their 
vessels. It could be broken up if all res- 
pectable people were to let it be known that 
they would patronize no line that allowed it.” 

That would be impracticable, would it 
not ?” asked Deland. 

Of course it would require some degree 
of sacrifice at the outset, as all reforms do, 
but it would carry in the end. Have you 
any objections to changing places with my 
right-hand neighbor at the table ?” 

No,” said the other, with a little hesita- 
tion, ‘‘ not if it can be done without giving 
offence.” 

‘‘I will contrive that,” said St. John. 
“ He is a disagreeable fellow, but he seems 
to be a friend of Outram’s; so they cannot 
reasonably object.” 

Accordingly, when dinner-time came, be- 
fore seating himself, St. John said to the 
burly man who sat beside him, 

“ Would you object to changing places 
with my friend here? You would then be 
beside your friend.” 


THE VOYAGE. 


29 


Philip’s words and manner were so cour- 
teous that the other complied, though rather 
surlily. It was plain from the vindictive 
looks of Outram that he did not relish the 
arrangement, and that he comprehended that 
it was St. John’s purpose to keep him from 
drawing Deland into his net. 

As the days went on the drift to the card- 
tables became so great that St. John made 
an ineffectual effort to have it stopped by an 
appeal to the captain, but he declined to in- 
terfere with the pleasures of the gentlemen. 
There was nothing then for Philip to do but 
to devote himself pretty constantly to Deland, 
and to exercise great vigilance to prevent 
Outram from communicating with him. It 
was wearisome, for Deland was not the kind 
of companion a man of St. John’s calibre 
would have chosen for a companion, and just 
now he felt like being alone to think over 
his future. More than once he found him- 
self asking, ‘‘ Why should I weary myself 
with the foolish fellow? If he wants to 
singe his wings, let him do it.” Then would 
come the voice in his soul, “ Thy brother’s 
keeper,” and he would redouble his efforts. 


30 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


The steamer was nearing New York, and 
all the passengers were eagerly waiting for 
the first sight of the pilot-boat, when they 
were startled by the report of a pistol. 
There was a rush for the cabin whence the 
ominous sound came; and when the door 
was opened, the horror-stricken group gazed 
on the prostrate form of a man lying on his 
face, while a. little stream of blood trickled 
from his temple. All was confusion, and 
the officers were called to take official cogni- 
zance of the matter. It was soon done ; there 
was no mystery. In a very short time every- 
thing was made plain. A note lay on the 
suicide’s berth which read as follows : 

“ I can live no longer : I have gambled 
with funds not my own, and have lost all. 
I cannot face my wife and innocent chil- 

Charles May.” 

Deland grasped St. John’s arm with a 
convulsive clutch. St. John turned and 
looked at him ; his face was white as that 
of a corpse. 

‘‘This is horrible!” he said, in a hoarse 


THE VOYAGE. 


31 


whisper. “ Come away.” They went on 
deck, and then he turned to St. John. “ I 
have been foolish enough to listen to scoffers 
sometimes,” he said, in a voice full of emo- 
tion, “ but I can never again doubt that God 
watches over us. But for you I might now 
be where that poor man’s soul is. I see now 
how you have been striving to keep me 
from ruin.” 

‘‘ I can never be thankful enough that you 
were preserved from the snare,” said Philip. 
“ What punishment is severe enough for 
those who lead their fellow-creatures astray, 
and for those who permit it to be done ? In 
the sight of God the captain of this ship is 
guilty of this man’s blood. But those who 
have done this will walk at large, with none 
to make them afraid.” 

Had you not taken me up, I fear I would 
have been another victim ; and how could I 
ever have looked my mother in the face, to 
say nothing of my employers ?” said Deland, 
in tremulous accents. 

“ I overheard a few words which showed 
me that the villains were plotting to lead 
you on by letting you win for a while till 


32 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


they could sweep off all you had, and I felt 
it my duty to try and save you/’ 

“ And I, fool that I was, thought I was a 
superior player, and in my heart I was half 
provoked at you for never giving me a 
chance/’ 

Just then voices were heard at a little dis- 
tance. 

“ Listen !” said Deland ; “ that is Outram 
speaking.” 

‘‘ I tell you no jury in the world could find 
a case against us. It was perfectly fair play : 
you see he does not charge us with anything 
unfair.” 

“ Yes ; but if his firm choose to follow up 
the matter, it may be pretty hot for you. 
At all events, it will injure us to have a 
scandal. I wouldn’t like to be boarded by a 
policeman on landing ; and if you — ” 

Here the voice sunk so low that St. John 
and Deland could not catch the rest of the 
sentence. 

“Very well,” said Outram, in a low but 
audible voice ; “ I’ll give you — ” 

Here again the sentence was inaudible. 

“Does he mean to bribe the captain, to 


THE VOYAGE. 33 

shield himself?” said St. John. ‘‘ That was 
the captain’s voice, was it not?” 

‘‘ I cannot say certainly,” said Deland. 

The two soon retired to their respective 
cabins, but sleep was long in coming to them, 
and it was almost morning when St. John 
heard a little stir as of a boat being lowered, 
and soon after the sound of oars. He slept 
late, weary with mental excitement; and 
when he awoke, the vessel was already in 
the dock. He at once arose, dressed himself 
quickly and went on deck, where he found 
Deland. 

‘‘ I’m watching to see the last of those 
scoundrels,” he said as St. John paused be- 
side him. 

As one after another of the passengers 
with whom they had become familiar during 
the voyage appeared Deland said, 

‘‘ I believe they are hidden or have found 
some way to get away.” 

“That explains — ” began St. John, then 
stopped. “ When did we take on the pilot ?” 
he asked. 

“Just after we had turned in,” answered 
Deland. 


3 


34 


PHILIP SP JOHN, 


‘‘I fancied I heard a boat go off in the 
night; they have been smuggled off.” 

Here Philip caught sight of a pale, slender 
woman — with her were three little children 
— watching eagerly the debarkation of the 
passengers. He felt a certainty that this was 
the wife of the man who had shot himself, 
but in another moment he caught sight of 
his brothers-in-law and his sisters, so, saying 
“ Good-bye” to Heland, he left the ship — not, 
however, before calling his friend’s attention 
to the woman waiting in vain for her hus- 
band, asking him to befriend her, also giv- 
ing him his address and inviting him to call. 


CHAPTER lY. 

AT HOME. 

A GLAD welcome awaited Philip St. John. 

His sisters were overcome with joy, and 
Mark Fortescue and Richard Esterbrook, 
with whom he was a favorite, had broken 
over business-rules — or, rather, the former 
had left his business and the latter had 
dragged himself out of his bed — to greet 
him. 

There was a pleasant little altercation as 
to where Philip should ride. 

Where am I to take breakfast,” he 
asked, laughing — with Barbara or with 
Frances?” turning smilingly to Justina. 
You are impartial.” 

With Barbara, I believe,” answered Jus- 
tina. 

‘‘ Then I will ride with Richard, and you 
shall come along. Richard will take us 
around to Mark’s.” 


35 


36 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


It was a pleasant drive; and when Mr. 
Fortescue’s mansion was reached, it did not 
take much persuasion to induce the Ester- 
brooks to stay to breakfast. 

Lady Adelaide Trent, who was still a 
guest of the Fortescues, was duly intro- 
duced ; then there were Master Geoffrey and 
Miss Alice, aged, respectively, ten and six, 
and, like Mr. Turveydrop, “models of de- 
portment.’’ After breakfast there was Mas- 
ter Guy — over whose head only one year’s 
experience had passed — to see, and he was 
not a model of deportment. 

“I have been very much stirred,” said 
St. John, in the course of the conversation, 
“ by an occurrence which will doubtless 
make some little stir. A poor fellow shot 
himself last night in his state-room.” Philip 
then went on and told the whole story, and 
added strong words of condemnation. 

“But I beg your pardon, Philip,” said 
Mr. Fortescue, in his stately manner; “all 
men must not be restrained because some do 
not control themselves. There is no harm 
in playing per se, I am sure our social card- 
parties are perfectly harmless.” 


AT HOME. 


37 


‘‘ I cannot agree with your last proposi- 
tion, but, even supposing it to be true, would 
it not be wise for men to put a restraint on 
themselves that they may help others?” 

^‘Suppose,” said Justina, timidly, ‘‘that 
this poor man had been traveling for your 
firm, Mark.” 

“ I can’t suppose anything so foolish,” 
said Mr. Fortescue, loftily, “for I think I 
use more discretion in choosing my em- 
ployes ; but had such a thing happened in 
my business, I should, if possible, institute 
proceedings and compel the fellows to dis- 
gorge.” 

“ In case you could not find the gamblers, 
what would you do for your money ?” asked 
Mr. Esterbrook. “ Let it go, eh ?” 

“ I think,” said the other, with some heat, 
“ I would make the steamship company re- 
sponsible for it.” 

Esterbrook laughed. 

“ There, Mark !” he said ; “ you have given 
over the whole question to Phil. You admit 
that you would make some one else morally 
responsible for the suicide of that wretch. 
I don’t want such deductions, for, next thing. 


38 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


Phil will be holding me responsible for things 
out of the way that take place on our rail- 
road- cars.” 

‘‘You are responsible, too,” said St. John; 
“you can’t argue yourself out of your re- 
sponsibility.” 

“ Hush, can’t you ?” said Esterbrook, half 
laughing. “ I don’t deny my responsibility, 
but I don’t want to hear about it. If I were 
a good church-member, like Mark here, in- 
stead of the sinner I am, my conscience 
would let me have no peace because I earn 
my bread by the Sabbath labor of my em- 
ployes. I prefer not to think about it at 
all.” 

“ I am sure my place of business closes on 
the Sabbath ; all my employ^ are free to rest 
or to do whatever they please on that day,” 
said Mr. Fortescue, stiffly. 

“ Oh yes !” said his brother-in-law ; “ we 
all know you haven’t time to go poking into 
their miserable dens to see whether their 
stent is done. Let us suppose it is.” 

“ You must remember,” said Philip, “ that 
I have an engagement for lunch. I want to 
know what I am expected to do afterward.” 


AT HOME. 


39 


“Oh, you are to be the star of a grand 
dinner here, and we will expect you not later 
than ten,’’ said Mrs. Fortescue. 

The party then broke up, and Philip ac- 
cepted Mr. Esterbrook’s offer to drive him 
to the Puthvens’. 

“ Philip is more delightful even than I 
remember him,” said Justina, when she and 
Mrs. Fortescue were left alone. 

“There is something about him that I 
cannot understand,” said Mrs. Fortescue, in 
a troubled voice. “ Did you not infer from 
what he said that he thought card-playing 
wrong?” 

“ Dear Barbara, I did not notice it par- 
ticularly at the time, but I believe he does ; 
and surely something must be wrong, to 
produce such fearful results. Did you ob- 
serve that he took no wine?” 

“ Did he not ? That is a change too. I 
wonder where he got such notions? I hope 
he is not going to be so absurd. Does he 
think he knows better than Dr. Atwell? 
I’m sure he attends our parties, where cards 
are played, and he takes wine too. If it 
were wrong, would he not tell us? Of 


40 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


course no gentleman is going to take more 
than is good for him.’’ 

Justina thought, but did not say, ‘‘Is Mr. 
Esterbrook, then, not a gentleman, or is it 
good for him?” She said aloud, 

“ I wish Kichard would not talk in such a 
reckless way ; he makes himself seem much 
worse than he really is, and it vexes Frances.” 

“ Well, I feel dissatisfied,” said Mrs. For- 
tescue, following out her own train of thought. 
“ What impression do you think Philip 
made on Lady Adelaide? I fear she will 
think him very radical.” 

“ I don’t know,” said Justina, impatiently. 
“ I wish you would not put such notions in 
one’s head.” 


CHAPTER y. 

THE RUTHVENS. 

P hilip in due time arrived and had been 
received as a member of the Huthven 
family. At that time of the day Mr. Hiith- 
ven was absent, but Mrs. Huthven, a stately 
lady of sixty and looking much younger, 
welcomed him with all the maternal solici- 
tude that was so pleasant to him. Corinna 
was her lovely self, and Hosalie, next to her 
in age and giving promise of equal loveliness, 
met him cordially. Hildegarde, with her 
great gray eyes, her shining brown hair and 
her sensitive mouth, was only a schoolgirl 
yet, and the boys, Harry and Frank, were 
preparing for college. The latter two were 
uproariously and Hilda was shyly glad to 
see Philip again. The whole atmosphere 
was so home-like that Philip trembled in- 
wardly at the thought of losing it all. To 

41 


42 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


this family also he told the story of his un- 
fortunate fellow-traveler. Was it fancy, or 
was there something chilling in the effect it 
had on Mrs. Euthven and her two elder 
daughters? They were politely sorry, but 
the sorrow did not extend very deep. St. 
John did not see the look of sadness in 
Hilda’s eyes. 

‘‘But, Mr. St. John,” said Harry, “play- 
ing for amusement isn’t wrong.” 

“A good tree does not bring forth evil 
fruit, Harry,” said St. John seriously. 

A little — a very little — frown arose on 
Corinna’s white brow. She was fond her- 
self of games of cards, and prided herself 
on her acumen and finesse. 

“ Cora knows lots of games,” said Frank ; 
“ Sir Balph Trent taught her ever so many 
new ones. He says he should be afraid to 
play with her if the stakes were high.” 

“ ‘ Sir Ralph Trent ’ ?” said Philip, with 
a note of inquiry in his voice. 

‘* Lady Adelaide’s father,” Corinna has- 
tened to explain ; “ you know you met her 
this morning at your sister’s.” 

“Ah, yes! You know, of course, that 


THE RUTHVENS, 


43 


there is to be a dinner at Barbara’s to-nigbt? 
How many of you are going ?” 

“All of us who are out,” said Bosalie. 
“ Hilda and the boys, of course, don’t count.” 

“ Are you so very insignificant a person- 
age, Hilda?” said St. John, turning to look 
at her. 

“ I can well afford to wait a year or two,” 
she said ; “ I should feel lost in great par- 
ties.” 

“ Hilda would rather romp with us boys,” 
said Harry ; “ I hope she will not grow up 
and desert us, like the other girls.” 

The rest of the family were considerate 
enough to leave Corinna and Philip alone 
for the remainder of the afternoon. Philip 
was for that one afternoon a coward : he had 
not the courage to risk banishment from 
that pleasant paradise. On his way home 
he went around to the Esterbrooks’. Frances 
was delighted to have him. come, and to ex- 
hibit her little Lola, who was an enfant ter- 
rible, but a very lovable little creature withal. 

There were only fifty present at the “ lit- 
tle ” dinner, which was as informal as any- 
thing pertaining to Mark Fortescue could be. 


44 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


Dr. Atwell himself was present. Of course 
wine excellent in quality and plentiful in 
quantity was provided. 

“ No, thank you/’ said Philip St. John, 
when the butler came to fill his glass. 

None but Philip’s near neighbors noticed 
the incident, but in a little while one of the 
guests said, 

I propose that we drink to the health of 
the returned wanderer.” 

Again the glasses were filled, and this 
time Philip St. John’s voice was quite clear 
as he handed his glass to the butler : “Wa- 
ter, please.” The glasses were emptied be- 
fore the company had recovered from their 
astonishment. They were too well bred to 
express their feeling or to make any re- 
marks. 

Soon the ladies retired, and some one re- 
marked compassionately to Philip, 

“ I suppose you are under orders from 
your physician, Mr. St. John. Is it for your 
stomach’s sake that you take no wine ?” 

“ No, it is for my soul’s sake, and for the 
sake of the souls of others.” 

“ What !” exclaimed an old friend ; “ you 


THE BUTHVENS. 


45 


have not gone over to the ranks of the total 
abstainers, have you?’’ 

I have the honor to say ‘Yes,’ ” answered 
Philip. 

“ But it is absurd !” said the other. “ Be- 
cause I, for instance, cannot control my ap- 
petite, everybody else must be deprived ! It 
seems to me that is the height of selfish- 
ness.” 

“ That is not the way the matter works 
usually,” said St. John. “It is those who 
are not likely to be injured who bind them- 
selves to abstain for the sake of those who 
are weak.” 

“ Selfish, selfish, any way, my dear boy ! 
If they are not likely to be injured, it is no 
hardship to them to abstain. They are very 
kind to give up what they don’t care for, 
and to insist on others giving up what they 
do care for.” 

“I think,” said Dr. Atwell, “that every 
man should judge for himself. I do not 
think it right to prohibit that which God 
himself recommends so highly.” 

“ Whatever we do, doctor,” said St. John, 
“ we are to do to the glory of God ; for my 


46 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


part, I do not feel that I can glorify God by 
continuing to use, or countenancing the use 
of, that which ruins so many thousands, not 
only for this world, but for the next.” 

“ This is a new phase in Philip’s charac- 
ter,” said Richard Esterbrook to Mr. Ruth- 
ven, who sat beside him. 

‘‘ I do not like to see a young man setting 
up his opinion in opposition to such a man 
as Dr. Atwell,” replied Mr. Ruthven ; it is 
hardly becoming toward one who baptized 
him. A young element like that in the 
church would soon deprive us of Dr. At- 
well’s services.” 

“That would be very unfortunate,” re- 
joined Esterbrook ; “ you might not find 
another man who would give you such a 
feeling of peace and security.” 

Just then there was a stir, and the gen- 
tlemen followed the ladies into the drawing- 
room. 

St. John soon found his way to Corinna’s 
side. There was a shade of displeasure in 
her manner as she received him. 

“You made yourself somewhat conspicu- 
ous to-night,” she said. 


THE RUTHVENS. 


17 


“I am sorry if I vexed you,” replied 
Philip, ‘‘ but I must stand to my colors.” 

The evening passed like other evenings. 
St. John found time to make an appointment 
with Corinna for the following day. 

“ I have been an idler in the world long 
enough,” he said ; ‘‘ I must begin to live in 
earnest, and I can do nothing till I have 
consulted you.” 


CHAPTER yi. 

BREAKERS. 

I ^HE next day Philip went, accordingly, to 
- Mr. Huthven’s, determined to have his 
future settled before he came home. 

Corinna,’’ he began, “ I am not the 
Philip who went away from you. I wrote 
that a change had come over my whole life. 
I saw all the past in a new light as I lay in 
the Valley of the Shadow of Death ; I found 
myself unprepared to enter into judgment. 
I saw^ that my whole life had been wasted ; I 
had not done a single act that was of any 
use to my fellow-men. Thanks to the faith- 
ful leading of the friend who ministered to 
my bodily sufferings, I found peace to my 
soul too. I gave myself body and soul to 
Him who died to redeem me. Henceforth I 
must live for him.’’ 

But,” said Corinna, in a troubled voice, 

48 


BREAKERS, 


49 


“I don’t understand. You have always 
been a Christian.” 

“ In name — yes ; but in deed how far 
from it ! Cora, you and I have known each 
other all our lives ; have we ever before in 
all our intercourse with each other spoken 
of religion ?” 

‘‘We have always gone to church and 
done our duty. I don’t see why we should 
talk about such gloomy things.” 

“ Not gloomy at all, Corinna. Believe 
me, religion is what takes the gloom out of 
everything. You are right, though, in one 
thing : it is a thing to be lived more than a 
thing to be talked about. That is why I 
wish to speak to you. Our future — ” 

“ I can’t see why that should make any 
difference in our future,” she said. “ I can’t 
comprehend your way of looking at it, but I 
don’t see how it could affect our life.” 

“ In many ways,” answered Philip. “ You 
can judge from my course last evening that 
in our house we could not offer wine to 
guests.” 

Corinna said nothing, but a gleam of 
anger shot into her eyes. 


50 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


“ Then, too, card-parties, dancing, theatre- 
going— ’ 

‘‘ There ! Stop !’’ she said, angrily. A 
monastery would be better suited to you than 
a social life would be. Why, it’s monstrous! 
What would society think of us? No wine! 
No card-parties ! No dancing! Would you 
wish me to spend my time visiting the poor 
and singing psalms? Truly, the prospect 
is most enticing!” 

Philip bore her scorn meekly : 

“ Corinna, believe me, I have not come to 
this resolve without prayer and solemn 
thought. No ; I think we might find many 
innocent pleasures and leave out all that I 
have spoken of. I would not compel you, 
of course, to visit the poor, though I would 
be very glad to have you do so as much as 
possible. And of course I should expect to 
set up a family altar in our home and have 
prayer night and morning.” 

“ Philip,” she said, rising, you said you 
were changed ; surely you are. The man 
whom I loved could not condemn me to such 
a life. I assure you, Philip, unless you can 
change your mind in these matters, all is at 


BREAKERS. 


61 


an end between us.” With a stately bow she 
left the room. 

There was nothing left for Philip to do 
but to go home. When he arrived, he was 
met on the upper landing by Justina. She 
was dressed to go out, but, struck by the look 
of trouble on Philip’s face, she laid her 
hand on his arm. 

What is it, Philip ?” she asked. “ Can’t 
I help you ?” 

‘‘No,” he said, abruptly; then, looking 
down at the sweet face upturned to his, he 
said, “ Perhaps you can. But you have an 
engagement ?” 

“ No ; I was only going to make a call. 
I will come in a moment;” and she went 
back to her room to put away her hat. 

When Justina went to Philip’s room, she 
found him sitting by the table with his head 
on his hands. 

“ Philip,” she said, softly, laying her hand 
gently on his shoulder. 

Philip raised his head and looked into 
Justina’s eyes, a long, searching look. Then 
he drew up a low chair beside himself. In 
this sister, who was almost a child when he 


52 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


went abroad, and of whom he had seen so 
little since his return, he recognized some- 
thing that was wanting in both Barbara and 
Frances. He felt that he could not have 
turned to either of them in this crisis. 

Little sister,” he said, “ did Barbara tell 
you that I had written to her that life had a 
new meaning to me ?” 

Yes,” said Justina, but she did not 
know what you meant.” 

“ No,” said St. John ; I did not suppose 
she would comprehend. You know, Justina, 
don’t you, that there is such a thing as being 
a heathen even in a Christian land? Well, 
that’s what I was. I went to church once a 
week, and that was all the religion I had. I 
took all the gifts God sent me, never thank- 
ing him for them, nor using them for his 
glory or for the good of my fellow-men ; my 
own happiness was the end of my being. 
When I lay in the presence of death, I saw 
it all. When Dr. Heathcote led me to the 
light, he showed me, too, how I had misused 
my talents and how much good I might do. 
I can truly say that I have no longer any 
‘ pleasure in the things that I formerly de- 



Philip Opens his Heart to Justina. Page 52. 





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BREAKERS. 


53 


lighted in/ Tell me, Justina : how does the 
life we lead now strike you?” 

Justina clasped her hands tightly : 

‘‘Oh, Philip, it is you who must help me. 
It is hollow, fearfully hollow — an endless 
round of parties, balls, sight-seeing and vap- 
id nothings. I don’t want to live such a 
life.” 

“ Well,” he said, “ I see you understand 
something of what I feel, but that is not 
enough : we must have something to put in 
place of the world. Here is my situation. 
You quite understand that, believing as I 
do, I cannot set up a household where such 
things will be done. Whatever sophistries 
we may use, that is not living ‘soberly, 
righteously and godly in this present evil 
world.’ My first duty I felt to be to explain 
this matter fully to Corinna. As I feared, 
she looks on me as a fanatic and refuses to 
listen to me. Yet I must do what is right, 
whatever may come of it.” 

“Why, Philip, I thought Corinna loved 
you ? I should think it would not take her 
long to make a decision between these things 
and you.” 


54 


nilLTP ST. JOHN. 


Apparently, it does not,” he said, with a 
sad smile. 

‘‘ But I mean in your favor,” said Justina. 
‘‘ She will soon think better of it.” 

“ I hope and pray that she may,” said 
Philip, ‘‘ not only for my own sake, but for 
hers. But you must remember that these 
things have been all of life to her. Poor 
child ! it is such a short time since I felt just 
so myself that I can understand how she looks 
at the matter. I imagine many others will be 
of her opinion — that I am a little light in the 
head. How do you think Barbara and Fran- 
ces will take it?” 

“ I am afraid,” said Justina, slowly, they 
will think it very foolish, to say the least of 
it. Mark told us what passed last night on 
the subject of wine-drinking, and Barbara 
was quite vexed ; she feared you would make 
yourself unpopular.” 

“ Well, then,” said Philip, wearily, “ am I 
to have you to stand by me ? Can you brave 
the storm of reproaches that will burst on 
me?” 

I will, Philip — I will ! Only tell me 
what you want me to do.” 


BREAKERS. 


55 


I have thought it all over many times 
during my voyage homeward. If I fail to 
convince Corinna, there is an end of that. 
You and I must make ourselves a cozy little 
home where we can serve God conscien- 
tiously. Do you read your Bible, Justina?’’ 

Oh, not much, Philip — life is such a 
whirl, and I do not understand it.’^ 

“ Let us read a little now,” he said ; and, 
stretching out his hand, he took up the 
volume lying on his table. You can un- 
derstand this, at all events : ‘ Come unto me, 
all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I 
will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you 
and learn of me ; for I am meek and lowly 
in heart, and ye shall find rest unto your 
souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden 
is light.’ ” 

After reading several other passages, the 
brother and sister knelt, and Philip asked 
guidance for them both in the new life. 

I never knew you before, Philip,” said 
Justina, when they had risen. 

This Philip was not here for you to 
know, dear ; the old Philip was a sorry fel- 
low. Now, Justina, we will say nothing of 


56 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


our housekeeping project till we see if it 
becomes necessary — that is, if Corinna’s de- 
cision is final. I shall tell Barbara and 
Frances my views on these matters and see 
what effect the declaration will have on them. 
There is one thing I have not mentioned to 
you, but it will cap the climax of my fanat- 
icism : I intend to retain for my own use 
only so much of my income as will support 
us in a very modest style ; the rest I shall 
spend in trying to make others better and 
happier. Yet really I had no intention of 
dragging you with me when I made my 
plans.’’ 

“ But you will not be sorry to have me 
with you, will you ?” asked Justina. 

‘‘ No ; it is an unexpected blessing.” 


CHAPTER yil. 

THEY OF HIS OWN HOUSEHOLD. 

“lyAHK/’ said Philip St. John the next 
morning at the breakfast-table, “ we 
have been in such a whirl since I came home 
that I have not had time to speak to you of 
my plans. I have been only a cumberer of 
the ground so far ; I must go to work in 
earnest.” 

‘ To work ’ !” said Barbara, in amaze- 
ment. ‘‘Why should you speak of work? 
You have so much money that you will find 
it very hard to use it all.” 

“ That’s a woman’s idea of business,” said 
Mr. Fortescue — “ to use it all. And after it 
is all used, what then? No; Philip is quite 
right. He may just as well go on increasing 
his income.” 

“ I certainly have abundant means,” said 
Philip, “ but I am only God’s steward, and I 

67 


58 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


must find out what is the wisest investment 
I can make of the capital with which I have 
been entrusted.” 

What line of business do you wish to go 
into?” asked his brother-in-law I shall be 
happy to assist you in any way that I can.” 

‘‘ I will tell you my plans as nearly as I 
can,” replied Philip. ‘‘I want to reserve 
only so much of my income as will keep me 
comfortably, and the rest I want to spend in 
helping the needy.” 

Mrs. Fortescue smiled. 

I suppose what would keep you comfort- 
ably would be a small fortune to some,” she- 
said. 

‘‘ You do not understand me, I think, 
Barbara,” said Philip, gently. I mean to 
live plainly, and even to deny myself in 
some things. I shall take a small house — ” 

“ ‘ Take a house ’ !” interrupted his sister. 
‘‘Why should you take a house at all just 
now ? If you are not going to change your 
condition immediately, as your words imply, 
you know you have your room both here 
and with Frances ; we will both be only too 
glad to have you. And if you are going to 


THEY OF HIS OWN HOUSEHOLD. 


59 


be married, T do not think you will find 
Corinna willing to live in a small house.’’ 

That may be,” said Philip, but I must 
do what is right, at all events. I do not 
wish to hurt your feelings, you are all so 
kind to me, but there is no use in putting off 
what is inevitable. I do not feel that I would 
thus be at liberty to live as my conscience 
tells me I should. You know the stand I 
have taken on the wine question ; that is 
only one of many. Many things that I 
have been accustomed to look at as harmless 
I am now convinced are wrong.” 

“As, for instance, what?” asked Mr. For- 
tescue, with dignity. 

“ Almost everything in our fashionable 
life,” said Philip, impetuously — “our late 
hours, our dancing, our polite gambling, our 
theatre-going, our neglect of the poor and 
needy and suffering all about us, our care- 
lessness about the tremendous issues of life 
and death. We eat and drink and dawdle 
and dress and dance until we drop into the 
grave.” 

“I think, Philip,” said Mr. Fortescue, 
“ your illness has left you a little unbalanced; 


60 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


I assure you I don’t dawdle, however true it 
may be of others. I must go now. If you 
are at a loss for a vocation, you might turn 
to preaching, though I doubt whether, with 
your present somewhat extraordinary senti- 
ments, you would stay long in the charge of 
a congregation and Mr. Fortescue left the 
room in high displeasure. 

‘‘ Barbara,” said Philip, after he had gone, 
‘‘ I wish I could make you understand. Do 
not you yourself see that much of our so- 
called religion is hollow? Now, there is 
Mark. He is an elder in the church, yet he 
finds no time for family worship ; business 
must be attended to at all hazards. It can’t 
be right.” 

What would become of his business if 
he neglected it?” said Mrs. Fortescue. “I 
can tell you the world and the Church would 
be a good deal worse off if he did not look 
to his business ; you have no idea how much 
he gives in charity every year.” 

Well, Barbara, I have felt from the first 
that I would be looked upon as little less 
than a madman, but I can see no other 
way and Philip rose wearily. Do you 


THEY OF HIS OTFiV' HOUSEHOLD. 


61 


know what has become of our father’s old 
clerk, Wyman?” 

“ I have lost sight of him for some time, 
but I presume Leighton & Summers could 
tell you ; they are still our lawyers.” 

“ Then I shall go and see them. Good- 
bye for a little.” A look of confidence 
passed between him and Justina as he went 
out. 

“Well,” said Mrs. Fortescue, “of all the 
wild notions I ever heard of, I think this is 
the wildest.” 

“Barbara,” said Justina, “I am sure 
Philip is good, and I believe he is right; we 
do misspend our time fearfully. What good 
have I done in all my twenty years ?” 

“I don’t see what more you want to do 
than to do your duty to society. Philip 
talks as if we were all sinners.” 

A faint smile overspread Justina’s face: 

“Well, I’m sure, Barbara, we confess 
every Sabbath that we are. What do we 
mean by this confession?” 

“ You know what I mean ; we are not 
dreadful sinners. It is only right to enjoy 
what we have.” 


62 


PHILIP ST. jbHN. 


Well, let us change the subject. I have 
a piece of news for you: Lady Adelaide 
Trent is engaged.” 

She is ? flow did you hear ?” 

Hilda Ruthven told me. Sir Ralph 
himself told Corinna that she is to be mar- 
ried soon after they go home. So she is out 
of the question, so far as Philip is con- 
cerned.” 

‘‘ I think,” said Mrs. Fortescue, dryly, 
‘‘every one will be out of the question if 
Philip persists in his folly.” 

Justina did not care to prolong the dis- 
cussion, and so ran up stairs to prepare her- 
self for a ride to the Esterbrooks’. 

“Where are you going, auntie?” called 
Alice as she met Justina in the upper hall. 

“To see Aunt Frances; do you want to 
come along?” 

“ Oh yes ! I want to go and see Lola.” 

“ Run ofP, then, and ask mamma; I will 
wait for you.” 

Alice ran away to her mother’s room, and 
Justina went down stairs. She bethought 
herself of a pot of geranium in the dining- 
room, which she had noticed in the morning 


THEY OF HIS OWN HOUSEHOLD. 


63 


needed trimming. She went along the hall, 
intending to trim it while she waited. Just 
as she entered the door she heard a stir at 
the sideboard, and, to her amazement, there 
stood Geoffrey with a glass of wine before 
him. He colored as he met her gaze. 

“ Why, Geoff she said, going up to him. 
‘‘ What does this mean 

The boy looked up at her defiantly : 

‘‘ It isn’t any harm ; papa and mamma 
both say it is only those who are not gentle- 
men who drink too much.” 

‘‘ How if you should get to drink too 
much, and so should cease to be a gentle- 
man, Geoff? No, my boy; this isn’t good 
for you.” 

“ I don’t see why,” he said, stubbornly. 
‘‘ It don’t hurt papa.” 

‘‘ Does your mamma know you help your- 
self? Would she like it?” 

Geoffrey did not answer. 

“Come, now,” said Justina, coaxingly; 
“go up stairs, and don’t do so again.” 

The child obeyed, but very reluctantly. 
Justina waited till he had left the room, then 
turned the key of the sideboard and put the key 


64 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


in her pocket. ‘‘ I shall be home in time to 
open it for dinner/’ she thought. I can’t 
risk Geoff in here with it open.” 

Auntie, auntie !” called Alice. 

“ Yes, I’m coming.” 

The drive was very pleasant, and Lola 
was delighted to meet Alice, whom she led 
off to the nursery. 

Justina and Frances had not long been 
seated when Mr. Esterbrook himself lounged 
in, having just finished his late breakfast. 

It puzzles me to know how you live over 
at your house,” he said to Justina, throwing 
himself at full length on the sofa. “ I be- 
lieve you get up before sunrise.” 

“Oh no,” said Justina; “seven is our ris- 
ing-time.” 

“ Well, ten is early enough for me.” 

“ After all, Eichard,” she said, “ I believe 
we look better than you do. There isn’t a 
creature in our house that looks as fagged 
as you do.” 

“There, now!” he said. “I don’t want 
you to begin to preach ; leave that for Phil. 
I had a sermon from him yesterday. Why 
didn’t the vagabond stay away ? I was sat- 


THEY OF HIS OWN HOUSEHOLD. 65 

isfied enough with myself till he came back, 
but I’ve had no peace since.” 

“ For shame, Richard !” said his wife. 

You know you like Philip.” 

‘‘ Like him ! Yes, I love him, but I’m 
awfully afraid of him since he has developed 
such radical proclivities. I don’t know but 
he’ll make me feel it my duty to build an 
almshouse and end my days in it myself. 
He has no mercy on us rich fellows.” 

Poor Philip !” said J iistina ; every- 
body will turn his back on him because he 
does what he thinks to be right.” 

“ Not so much that,” said Mr. Esterbrook, 
‘‘as that he will not do what other people 
think to be right enough. What is he doing 
this morning?” 

“ He went out to hunt up Wyman, father’s 
old clerk ; I believe he intends to get him to 
help him in his business-affairs.” 

“ He is wise. Wyman is a sharp fellow 
and thoroughly honest. Now I think I 
must deprive you ladies of my company and 
go down to the club and he rose and saun- 
tered away. 

When Frances had heard what Justina 


6 


66 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


had to tell of Philip’s intention of taking 
his business in hand himself, she quite 
agreed with the rest of his friends that his 
mental equilibrium must be disturbed. 

As Justina rode homeward she paid little 
heed to Alice’s chatter ; she was wondering 
why it was that whenever a man tried to 
do right everybody found fault with him. 
‘‘ Now, there is Pichard,” she thought ; “ he 
is killing himself with dissipation, yet no- 
body thinks of calling him insane.” 

It was almost dinner-time when Justina 
went in. She remembered to unlock the 
sideboard, and then went directly to her 
sister to tell her about Geoffrey and caution 
her against letting him have access to the 
wine. 

I do not think there is the slightest dan- 
ger,” said the foolish mother ; ‘‘ Geoffrey has 
been too well brought up ever to use wine to 
excess. I do hope, Justina,” she said, anx- 
iously, ‘‘you are not infected with Philip’s 
bigoted ideas?” 


CHAPTER YIII. 

OVERBOAED. 

I SHALL not weary my readers with an 
account of the numerous interviews that 
took place between Philip St. John and 
Corinna Huthven during the months that 
followed St. John’s return, for they all had 
the same result. Corinna had certainly 
loved Philip St. John, the courted million- 
aire who could give her a handsome estab- 
lishment and surround her with costly lux- 
uries, so that she would outshine all her 
companions; but Philip St. John in obscur- 
ity and an object of scorn to society was a dif- 
ferent matter. Her family — that part of it 
which she thought worth while to consult — 
took the same view, and Mrs. Ruthven’s 
suavity gradually changed into haughty 
severity, as became her toward one who 
wished to drag her daughter with him into 

67 


68 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


obloquy and obscurity. To end the trouble 
a note was handed Philip one evening from 
Mr. Euthven : 

‘‘ My Dear Sir : It is useless to hope for 
any change in my daughter’s views in regard 
to your future life, and I therefore beg you 
to consider your engagement at an end, and 
to discontinue your visits, as unacceptable. 

“Franklin Euthven.” 

Enclosed was a note from Corinna herself : 

“ Mr. St. John : You will please accept 
this as final. Corinna Euthven.” 

Accompanying the notes was a package 
containing the ring Philip had given Co- 
rinna, and all his presents. 

Justina came to Philip’s room that even- 
ing, as she had become accustomed to do. 

“Well, Justina,” he said, in a hopeless 
voice, “ it is all over and he handed her 
the letters. 

“ Poor Philip !” she said, when she had 
read them, stroking his hand softly. 


OVEBBOABD. 


69 


For a while no word was spoken, then 
Justina said timidly, 

Shall we not have our usual reading, 

Philip r 

“ Yes,^’ he said; ‘‘surely in that we will 
find comfort. Now,’’ he said, when they 
had ended, “ we must face the world bravely. 
You are sure you do not wish to draw back, 
Justina ?” 

“ Quite sure,” she said, “ that I shall be 
happy with you wherever you are.” 

“ To-morrow, then, we must tell Barbara. 
I am afraid she will strongly oppose it.” 

“ Barbara,” said Philip, the next morn- 
ing, after Mr. Fortescue had gone, “ I want 
to speak to you this morning if you have a 
little time at your disposal.” 

“ Certainly ; just now if you choose.” 

“ First of all, then, my engagement with 
Corinna is at an end ; I had letters yesterday 
from both Cora and her father telling me 
that such is the case.” 

“It is no more than I expected,” said 
Barbara. “ Really, Philip, you have put us 
in a very unpleasant position. We must 


70 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


lose the society of the whole Ruthven con- 
nection/’ 

“Well, never mind,” said Philip; “when 
they know that you disapprove of me, they 
will forgive you and readmit you to their 
society. I am going to take a house in Blank 
street — ” 

“ ‘ Blank street ’ !” interrupted Mrs. For- 
tescue, in a tone of horror. “ No one will 
ever visit you there.” 

“ Please let me go on. The house has ten 
rooms ; I want to have places for a few guests 
occasionally. We shall keep only three 
servants — a man and two girls. I think we 
shall be able to get along on two thousand 
a year.” 

“ ‘ We ’ ? You say ‘ we,’ ” said Mrs. Fortes- 
cue. “ Whom do you mean ?” 

“ Justina and I,” said St. John, quietly. 

“‘Justina’! You are not going to ruin 
Justina too?” 

“ Dear Barbara,” said Justina, “ don’t 
speak in that way ; there is no question of 
ruin. I want to go with Philip ; he needs 
me, and you do not, for you have Mark and 
the children. I assure you I do not expect 


OVERBOARD. 


71 


to find it a hard life; I expect to be very 
happy.” 

“ I am sure you might marry Colonel 
Harper or Tom — ” 

‘‘ There, Barbara, stop ! Don’t enumerate 
people who have never done me the honor 
to ask me to marry them. I don’t care 
enough about any one to prefer him to Philip. 
That settles it, doesn’t it ?” 

‘‘ I know Mark will think all this very 
foolish.” 

“ Well, we two foolish people had better 
be by ourselves,” said St. John. I think 
Justina and I will go and see our house.” 

A few evenings later Justina came into 
her brother’s room with a letter in her hand. 

‘‘ Here is at least one person who does not 
condemn us,” she said as she gave the letter 
to Philip : 

‘‘Dear Justina: I can say only I am 
shocked and ashamed at what has been tak- 
ing place these days. To think that Philip 
has been treated so! I didn’t think Cora 
could have been so hard-hearted. It seems 
to me, from what I can understand about the 


72 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


things with which they charge Philip, that 
he is right and they are wrong. You know 
I can’t go to see you as matters stand now, 
but I know mamma will not object to our 
writing ; so write to me often, and believe me 
Your sincere friend, 

Hildegaede Euthven.” 

“ I do not know much about Hilda,” said 
Philip; “she is very shy. I suppose the 
boys will cut me too. I shall be sorry, for 
they were great friends of mine.” 

“ Hilda is a good girl,” said Justina ; “I 
had not realized that I was to lose her com- 
panionship. We had so much in common ! 
When I was tired, I always went to see her 
to get brightened up. You know she ’was 
not in society, and so I had a rest from 
society topics.” 

“ I believe you are glad to escape from so- 
ciety yourself, Justina,” said St. John. 

“ I don’t know how to tell you my feelings 
about it, Philip,” she said. “ I don’t know 
that I would have had the courage to oppose 
Barbara and Frances if you had not come 
along to deliver me, but there have been 


OVERBOARD. 


73 


times when I cried with shame and loathing 
of myself. Forced by the usages of society 
to dress in such an improper manner and be 
stared at by people ! Then the way in 
which marriage is talked of, as if it were 
but a mere commercial transaction ! I have 
often wondered if Barbara and Frances had 
no more affection for Mark and for Bichard 
when they married them than they seem to 
think it necessary for me to have when what 
they call ‘a good match’ comes into the field. 
If they had not, I don’t see how they have 
lived together all these years.” 

‘‘ I do not think,” said Philip, that Bar- 
bara had much affection for Mark, only just a 
well-regulated liking. He wasn’t distasteful 
to her, and he was a respectable man and 
able to give her all the luxuries she wanted. 
I think she is quite satisfied ; Mark is good 
to her, and he is looked up to in society. 
Her affections are satisfied in her children. 
With Frances it is different; she married 
Bichard for love. How it might have been 
had he not been wealthy I can’t tell, but, at 
all events, she loved him. He disappointed 
her in many ways, and Frances is not very 


74 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


meek, you know ; so I believe Barbara’s mar- 
riage without love is happier than Frances’s 
with love.” 

“Well,” said Justina, “I never could say 
so to any one before, but, with all his faults, 
I like poor Bichard better than I do Mark. 
I always feel that Mark is ice clear through ; 
self is everything with him. Eichard doesn’t 
pretend to be good, but I have known him do 
a great many kindnesses to his employes. 
Mark wants the full value of his money out 
of his work-people, and after that he doesn’t 
care what becomes of them.” 

“Yes,” replied Philip, “the trouble about 
Bichard is that he is so careless. If trouble 
comes under his notice, he will relieve it to 
save himself from pain, but he takes good 
care to keep out of sight of it. However, 
we must retire now, for to-morrow we shall 
be busy all day furnishing our new house.” 


CHAPTER IX. 


THE NEW HOME. 

T he new home on Blank street was to 
Justina a change indeed from the pal- 
ace-like surroundings to which she had all 
her life been accustomed, but the very nov- 
elty gave it a charm. 

The first day St. John had enough of fur- 
niture taken home to enable him and Justina 
to occupy it comfortably that night. His 
servants were already engaged — Reuben 
Taylor, an elderly man recommended to him 
by Mr. Wyman, and his wife, Rachel. To 
Rachel had been delegated the duty of find- 
ing a suitable maid. She had brought an 
honest, capable Scotch lassie, Jean Dougal 
by name. Reuben did all the marketing 
and heavy woi*k, Rachel the cooking, and 
Jean was housemaid. The very first even- 
ing they spent in their house St. John called 
them all together and told them he should 

75 


76 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


expect them all to be present for family wor- 
ship every morning before breakfast and after 
dinner in the evening. For this reason he 
wished them to be provided with Bibles. 

“ Eh, Mrs. Taylor !” said Jean, that night, 
‘‘ isn’t it an unco guid thing to live in a fam- 
ily where the fear o’ God is kent? Sin’ I 
left auld Scotland I haena been in sic a 
hoose.” 

“ Mr. St. John has given up a great deal 
for the sake of his religion — though, for 
that matter, there’s none of us can make any 
sacrifice worth the name,” said Mrs. Taylor. 
“ But, for all that, all his friends are down on 
him for trying to live like a reasonable be- 
ing, and not like the fool Luke tells us about, 
and we must help him all we can. You see, 
Mr. AVyman — that is his clerk — told Beuben 
all about it.” 

“ And the bonnie young leddy, she maun 
be like him, or she wadna’ hae cam’ wi’ 
him.” 

Ay, I think she is,” said Mrs. Taylor. 

‘‘Mrs. Taylor,” said St. John, when the 
house had been settled, “ I am obliged to be 
away from home a great deal, and I shall 


THE NEW HOME. 


77 


leave my sister to you and Jean to take care 
of. She is young and not accustomed to 
loneliness.” 

“We will do what we can, sir,” she said. 

As for the house itself, it had two stories 
and an attic. On one side of the entrance- 
hall was the parlor, a good-sized room ; on 
the other was Philip’s study, opening from 
the hall, and beside it was the dining-room. 
The kitchen was in a line with the dining- 
room, in a wing, and the angle between it 
and the parlor was occupied by a porch, 
where Justina’s flowers were to stand. Up 
stairs, over the parlor, there were two rooms, 
one of which was Justina’s and the other a 
spare-room. On the opposite side of the hall 
were St. John’s bedroom, over his study, 
and another spare-room, over the dining- 
room. A little apartment at the end of the 
hall was Jean’s domain, and a sleeping-room 
for Keuben and Rachel was over the kitchen, 
while over the porch there was a bath-room. 
The attic, besides space for storing away lum- 
ber, contained two low rooms which would 
be quite comfortable for any poor creature 
who might need shelter for a little time. 


78 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


The rooms were furnished inexpensively, 
but in perfect taste. Tlie pictures were very 
few. 

While Philip and Justina were arrang- 
ing their furniture a van stopped at the 
door. Its driver rang the bell and handed 
Jean a note, which she took in to Philip. 
He and Justina read it together : 

“Dear Lunatics: The bearer will de- 
liver to you a piano for Justina. For such 
sinful extravagance I hope you will forgive 
me. I did not know but you might be too 
‘near/ as Barkis would have said, to provide 
yourselves with one. Pil take that back : I 
was really afraid you might get ahead of me, 
and I wanted the pleasure of doing that for 
Justina. I owe it to her for the many times 
she has delighted me with her music. 

“ Your scrapegrace brother, 

“ Richard Esterbrook.’’ 

“ Poor Richard both said, laughingly, 
when they had read the note. 

“ It is very kind of him,’’ added St. John. 
“ I should have gotten one, for you will need 


THE NEW HOME. 


79 


it often to cheer yourself up ; but I^m glad 
you have this from Richard.” 

And now began the steady work of life. 
St. John had an office, where Mr. Wyman 
was installed as his chief clerk, with a num- 
ber of subordinates. The personal oversight 
of such a large property as St. John’s was 
no small task. His intention was to find 
out, if possible, those persons and schemes 
which were most needy, and to aid them 
first. 

Justina was at the beginning busy with 
household affairs, and she began at once to 
take a course of practical training with Mrs. 
Taylor. Jean she ffiund to be a person who 
had read a good deal of general literature, 
and she encouraged her to improve her mind 
as much as possible during her leisure. J ean’s 
quaint and shrewd comments on books and 
things often amused and delighted her. 

As for Jean herself, she almost expected 
every morning to awake and find herself 
dreaming. Dear mither,” she wrote, when 
Miss Justina first took me to a room an’ said, 
‘ How do ye lik’ this room, Jean ?’ I had no 
tliocht it was for mysel’. I thocht it bid to 


80 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


be for her ainseP or ane o’ the guests. An’ 
whan I said it was fair luvely, an’ she said, 
‘ Weel, Jean, I’m glad ye lik’ it ; it’s for you,’ 
I jist grat lik’ a bairn. ‘ Gw, Miss Justina,’ 
I said, it’s ower-bonnie for the lik’ o’ me.’ 
I wish you culd see it. It has a cairpet i’ 
the flure, an’ a kist o’ drawers, an’ a snug 
fireplace for the winter. An’ there’s a new 
sofa covered wi’ chintz, an’ a rocker, an’ a 
dainty white bed as saft as Miss St. John’s 
ain. The curtains are blue an’ white. I 
never tellt ye afore, mither, for fear ye wad 
be fashed, but at my ither place I slept in a 
dirty attic with twa ithers i’ the same bed. 
It was unco hard, and P didn’t seem to rest 
a’ the nicht. We never saw the leddies ex- 
cept whan they ca’d us to scold aboot some- 
thing, an’ a’ the other servants they gecked 
at me because I tried to min’ the Lord. Here 
it jist seems as if I had gotten into paradise.” 

By and by Justina began to grow a little 
restive, and pined for something to do. One 
evening Philip brought home a .packet of 
letters. 

“ What are all those for?” said Justina. 

‘‘ I could not get time to look at them all 


THE NEW HOME. 


81 


at the office/’ he said, ‘‘ so I brought these 
home to examine. I will note the answers 
to be given to each, and will write them in 
my spare time.” 

‘‘ Oh, that is exactly what I should like to 
do,” said Justina. ‘‘ I have just been bemoan- 
ing myself because I have not enough work 
to do. 'Now, if you will note on the en- 
velope of each what you want done with it, 
I shall be glad to answer them for you.” 

But you will find it very wearisome, I’m 
afraid ; you have no idea how manv letters 
I get.” 

You know I like to write,” she said, and 
this will enable me to comprehend your 
aflPairs so much better. You would not have 
time to tell me all the ins and outs, but in 
this way we can work together.” 

‘‘Very well; we can try it,” Philip said; 
and from that time Justina had cliarge of the 
correspondence. She kept copies of all the 
letters she wrote, pressing Jean into her 
service as assistant, and she often found that 
Jean was able to give very practical sugges- 
tions. 

Before this time, however, just after her 
6 


82 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


housekeeping began, Justina had gone to see 
Barbara. Barbara had explained to her, 
with a good deal of circumlocution, that 
Mark did not think it best that she and 
Philip should visit them when they had 
company. Mark had told every one that he 
disapproved of their course, and, now that 
the unhappy affair with the Buthvens had 
blown over, the Buthvens saw that Philip's 
ideas were as distasteful to the Fortescues as 
to themselves, and she did not like Mark to 
be vexed. 

‘‘In short," replied Justina, “you would 
rather Philip and I would not come to visit 
you." 

“ No, not that ; I would like to have you 
when I am alone. Mark — " 

“ Mark shall not be troubled by us," said 
Justina. “ But, Barbara, I miss the chil- 
dren ; couldn't you let them come to see 
us sometimes ? If you don't like to let the 
carriage come, you could send Thomas with 
them, and they could take a car." 

“Oh no! I couldn't think of such a 
thing. They might get some dreadful dis- 
ease." 


THE NEW HOME. 


83 


“ Barbara/’ said Justina, “I have no pa- 
tience with you. You talk as if we lived in 
the midst of fevers or small-pox, or some 
dreadful thing, just because we are in an 
unfashionable street. Do you think Philip 
would have taken me to an unhealthy local- 
ity ? For the sake of our work, if for noth- 
ing else, we must take care of our health.” 

‘‘ But I couldn’t risk the children in such 
a place. And then one never knows what 
they may be exposed to in a car.” 

Do rich children never die, Barbara ? 
I tell you your children run worse risks 
every day.” 

“ What do you mean ?” said the mother, 
alarmed. 

‘‘ Every time you or Mark take wine in 
Geolf ’s presence or give it to him you injure 
him more than tongue can tell.” 

“ Oh, come, Justina ! that is mere folly. 
One would think there never were any sober 
men in the world before these total abstainers 
began their crusade. You know papa and 
mamma used it always, and we were all 
brought up to use it, and it hasn’t hurt 
any of us.” 


84 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


“ Barbara/^ said Justina, with a troubled 
voice, “ I have seen Frances exhilarated with 
wine. Hadn’t we another brother than 
Philip — one who died when I was quite a 
little child ? Old Edda, our nurse, told me 
the story of our brother Roy.” 

Mrs. Fortescue turned pale. For years she 
had not thought of that long-past day of her 
youth when her brother died in the agony of 
delirium, but in a moment it all came back. 

But, Justina,” she said, recovering her 
self-possession, “ that was a solitary case.” 

“ One case like that in a family is enough. 
But I must go. Kiss me good-hye, Barbara ; 
I shall not be likely to see you for some 
time.” 

Justina had not gone very far when she 
heard a voice behind her call, ‘‘ Auntie, 
auntie !” She turned about and saw Geof- 
frey. 

“ Oh, Geoff,” she said, “ I am so glad to 
see you ! Where did you come from ?” 

‘‘ I was in the other room when you were 
talking to mamma ; she sent us there because 
she said papa would rather we shouldn’t meet 
you. What has Uncle Philip done that’s so 


THE NEW HOME. 


85 


bad? Papa said last night that he was a 
disgrace to the whole connection.’’ 

Justina’s cheeks burned with indignation, 
but she only said, 

“ Uncle Philip has not done anything dis- 
graceful, and you need not be ashamed of him. 
But why did you follow me, Geoff, if your 
papa does not like it? Did your mother 
say you might?” 

“ No, but I wanted to see you. Say, 
auntie, I will go and see you and Uncle 
Philip. Only tell me where you live; I 
can find it.” 

“Indeed, I can’t, Geoff; you must not 
come if your parents do not wish you to. I 
would like very much to see you, but not if 
it displeases them.” 

“ I’m sure it isn’t wrong to go and see you,” 
he persisted. 

“ It’s wrong to disobey your parents, Geoff. 
Do you mind the day I saw you at the side- 
board ? I hope you don’t do such things 
now. I want you to try and not drink 
wine.” 

“ But I like it so much !” and even as he 
spoke a look of craving crept into his eyes. 


86 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


“ But oil, Geoff, it does bring such misery ! 
Don’t do it — don’t do it !” 

I’ll try not, auntie, but I’m afraid it’s no 
use,” he said, despondently. ‘‘ It’s there ; 
and when I see it and smell it, I want it.” 

Justina bade Geoffrey ‘‘Good-bye” and 
went on her way with a heart full of fore- 
boding for the child who even as a child 
already felt it to be a hopeless task to fight 
against his enemy, and full of impotent rage 
at the foolish parents who exposed him to 
temptation. From that time no day passed 
that she and Philip did not pray for Geof- 
frey. 

The question of “ to go or not to go ” was 
discussed at the Esterbrooks also, Mrs. For- 
tescue being present. Her views the reader 
already knows. 

“Well,” said Bichard, decidedly, “/ shall 
not drop them for the Buthvens, or for any 
one else. Of course Philip is a fool ; all the 
saints have been from the time Abraham went 
off in such an unbusiness-like, short-sighted 
way without knowing where he was going, 
and since Moses was foolish enough to give up 
his snug berth at the palace of Pharaoh and 


THE NEW HOME. 


87 


go off to herd sheep, and afterward to risk his 
life for a pack of ingrates who didn^t care a 
row of pins for him, and plagued him to 
death finally. One consolation : the fools 
are not very plenty. But then, if Philip 
chooses to make a fool of himself, it’s his 
own business ; he is the loser, and I don’t see 
why we should all be down on him. I hope 
he and Justina will come here just as they 
always did ; I shall certainly go and see 
them whenever I feel like it. I don’t sup- 
pose I shall think of it very often ; but when 
I do, I shall go. I’ll go right along and in- 
quire where Mr. St. John lives, and hold up 
my head as proudly as you please, and say, 
‘He’s my brother-in-law.’ But then I’m 
not such a saint that I can afford to be 
ashamed of Philip St. John.” 


CHAPTER X. 

^^MITHERIN' THE BAIBNS» 

“ TJERE is a letter,” said St. John, one 
A-1- evening, ‘‘about which I must have 
your advice before I can answer it and he 
handed Justina the following epistle: 

“ Mr. St. John — 

“ Dear Sir : You may have thought it 
strange that I never accepted your kind in- 
vitation to call on you, or that I did not at 
least drop you a line. You may have 
thought me so ungrateful as to forget you, 
but I assure you that can never be. I prom- 
ised myself the pleasure of calling on you 
soon after we landed, but I was sent imme- 
diately out West on business for the firm. 
They expressed themselves pleased at the 
manner in which I had transacted their Eu- 
ropean business, and so gave me this new 
commission. I thought how little worthy I 


MITHERIN' THE BAIRNS: 


89 


was of their kind commendation, and re- 
solved that they should never have occasion 
to regret the confidence they had placed in 
me. My business was important and re- 
quired much thought and care; so that I 
was unable at the time to write to you, as I 
wished. On coming home I was sent direct- 
ly back to Europe again, and I now find 
that I will not be at leisure again for several 
months, as I have before me another West- 
ern trip ; so I will no longer put off writing. 

‘‘You remember you asked me to befriend 
Mrs. May, the wife of the poor man who 
shot himself? I hope I may never witness 
such a scene as that which took place when 
her husband’s dead body was given to her. 
I got her address, and, going home, took my 
mother to see her. It was days before she 
was able to give an account of her situation. 
She then told my mother that she was almost 
penniless ; she had nothing but the furni- 
ture that was in the house and her clothing. 
The rent for the last month was due, but she 
had not enough money to pay it. Mother 
paid the rent, took her home, gave her and 
the two younger children ray room and took 


90 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


the oldest into her own. The poor woman 
has been trying to support herself by needle- 
work, but you know that, at the price paid 
for such work at the large establishments, it 
is an impossibility for a woman to feed and 
clothe herself and three children by the 
labor of her hands. I write to ask you if 
you know of any work that could be procured 
for her. Her capabilities are not great ; she 
is not fitted for teaching. If the prices were 
not so exceedingly low, she could support 
herself by sewing. It occurred to me that 
among your wealthy friends you might find 
some one who would be willing to pay fair 
prices. She is extremely anxious to be able 
to support herself. 

I hope that when I come back again I 
shall be able to get time to see you. Our 
address is 217 street. 

‘‘ Gratefully yours, 

‘'Henry Deland.’’ 

" Who is he, Philip ?” asked Justina, with 
interest ; whereupon Philip told her the 
story. 

" I don’t think,” said she, sadly, “ that we 


MITUERIN^ THE BAlRNS: 


91 


have any interest among the wealthy that 
would benefit any one.’’ 

“ No,” said Philip ; we must look some- 
where else for help.” 

‘‘Let us ask Jean,” said Justina; “she 
may give us some practical suggestions.” 

“ Call her,” said Philip. “You seem to 
have great faith in Jean.” 

“I have,” said Justina, “and chiefly be- 
cause she has faith in God.” 

Jean was called, •accordingly, and came. 

“Jean,” said Justina, “sit down a minute 
and listen while I read you this letter.” 
When she had finished the story, she said, 
“ Now, Jean, can you think of any way by 
which a lone woman could maintain herself 
honestly ? You see, teaching is out of the 
question, and I fear sewing is too.” 

Jean “thocht” a little, and then said, 

“’Deed, Miss Justina, I think there is a 
wark that she micht do, an’ the Lord kens 
that it needs to be dune, for I hae taen tent 
that there’s a by ordinar’ number o’ bairns 
i’ this neighborhood. But whether she culd 
maintain hersel wi’oot the help o’ some o’ 
the Lord’s folk I greatly misdoot. It’s jist 


92 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


this : if there culd be a richt place got for’t, 
she micht tak’ care o’ the puir weans whan 
the mithers are awa’ at their wark. Ye ken 
there are sic places, but it’s plain there’s 
nane here.” 

“Well thought of!” said Philip, de- 
lighted. “We will see about a room im- 
mediately, and install her. I’ll pay her 
wages.” 

“Na, na! Ye’re ower fast, Mr. St. John,” 
answered Jean. “ It may be that she winna 
suit ava; it’s nae every woman that can 
mither the bairns. If ye tak’ my advice, 
ye’ll jist invite her an’ her weans here to 
occupy the spare-chammers a bit, till we can 
see what like she is. She micht be a vera 
douce body, an’ yet no be fit for that ; so we 
may hae to luik about for something else for 
her.” 

“ Truly, you’re a canny Scotch lassie, Jean !” 
said St. John, laughing. “You like to look 
before you leap.” 

“Weel, ye ken, Mr. St. John,” she an- 
swered, “ it’s muckle easier wark to mak’ a 
mistake than to unmak’ it whan it’s made.” 

“ No doubt of it, Jean,” said Philip, with 


MITHERIN* THE BAIRNS: 


93 


a smile. ‘‘Have you any more suggestions 
to offer 

“ If ye wadna tak’ it ill, sir,’' she said, “ I 
dinna think it wad be wise or guid for the 
folk themsels to hae the service free. I 
would hae the folk pay, gin it suld be only 
a few cents.” 

“Very well,” said St. John; “we will 
consider it settled, then. I think, Jean, I 
wdll commission you to go to the address 
given by Mr. Deland and take a letter from 
me. You will, if she is willing, bring Mrs. 
May and her children to spend a little while 
with us. You had better take Mr. Deland’s 
own letter with you, to convince his mother 
that you are not an impostor.” 

“ Hoot, Mr. St. John ! Think ye she culd 
luik i’ my face an’ think that?” said Jean, 
indignantly, as she rose to leave the room. 

St. John laughed. 

“ Jean should have been a general,” he said 
to Justina. “ What broad Scotch she talks ! 
Why don’t you try and modify her tongue?” 

“Modify iti” exclaimed Justina. “I 
wouldn’t for anything. It’s like music to 
me. No, no! Let Jean be Jean. If you 


94 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


try to change her, you will spoil her out- 
right.’’ 

Well, now for another matter. You 
know my good Dr. Heathcote has been want- 
ing funds to enlarge his mission work, so I 
sent him a draft for five thousand dollars, 
which is to be renewed yearly. He wrote 
back that before he had not enough money, 
and now he has so much that he needs some 
one to help him to spend it. He wants me 
to look him up a capable young Christian 
physician. He has intimations from what 
he thinks reliable sources that the present 
restrictions on giving firmans to foreigners 
will soon be removed, and he wishes to be 
prepared to take advantage of the circum- 
stances and buy ground for a hospital ; so he 
wants help as soon as possible.” 

“ Well, I hope you may find it.” 

“ I, at least, am not likely to undervalue 
medical missions. I am negotiating for the 
purchase of an enormous gin-palace in the 
worst part of the city; I think there is no 
doubt that I shall be able to get it. When I 
do, then I am going to set up a coffee-house, 
and also add a gymnasium and a reading- 


MITHERIN^ THE BAIRNS:' 


95 


room. In the latter I shall also have mu- 
sical instruments of various kinds, so that 
those who are fond of music can play. I 
also intend to open a night-school.’’ 

‘‘ What about your work at Castle Gar- 
den?” asked Justina. 

‘‘ I have had little time to attend to that 
lately,” he said. “ I must manage some way 
to help those poor creatures who come to us.” 

The next day, Jean, armed with her let- 
ters, went to visit Mrs. Deland ; she found 
her enthusiastic in her praises of St. John. 
Mrs. May was very glad of the prospect of 
work, though Jean did not reveal to her 
what it was, and in the evening, with many 
expressions of gratitude, she and her chil- 
dren left the hospitable widow who had so 
long sheltered them. 

Mrs. May proved quite deft with her 
needle, and insisted on helping Justina in 
many ways. The children were well be- 
haved and helpful. After they had been a 
week with them, St. John summoned Jean, 
and said. 

Well, Jean, what is your verdict ? Can 
she ‘ mither the bairns ’ ? ” 


96 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


‘‘Ay, that she can, sir. Her ain are 
proof o’ that.” 

“ So you think that we had better try and 
begin the work ?” 

“ Jist as soon as ye lik’, sir.” 

So it came about that Mrs. May was pro- 
vided with a room for the use of the little 
ones during the day. Her salary, which 
was paid by St. John, enabled her to rent 
two rooms for herself and her children, who 
went to school during the day. The fee for 
the care of each child was twenty-five cents 
a week, and this went toward paying the 
rent of the room and providing the dinner 
for the little ones. 

Justina made an appeal for cast-off pict- 
ure-books and toys which brought an ample 
supply. 

“ It would do your heart good,” she said 
to St. John, one evening, at dinner-time, 
“ to see Mrs. May’s little flock. She has all 
kinds of babies, from two years old up to 
six ; there are two little black ones.” 

“ How many are there ?” 

“ Twenty-eight,” said J ustina. “ She says 
she has applications in plenty, but alone and 


MITHERIN^ THE BAIRNS: 


97 


with no more room it is not possible for her 
to take any more. They are swarming now, 
yet it is wonderful how she manages to keep 
them good-natured.” 

‘‘We must have more room, then,” said 
St. John. “Did you ever notice a* tene- 
ment-house just about a block away from 
her rooms ?” 

“ An old tumble-down affair ?” 

“ Yes — almost in the last stages of decay. 
I think I shall buy that, pull it down and 
put up a good substantial building in its 
place. In that case I shall have a set of 
rooms expressly for the nursery, and will let 
out the rest of it, supplying the tenants with 
much better accommodations than they had 
before. By building it high I can get much 
more space. There is just one problem that 
I do not know how to solve — that is, what 
to do with the tenants in the mean time. So 
far as is possible, I should like to let it to 
the same persons who have occupied the old 
building. I must find out all about them.” 

7 


CHAPTER XI. 

ECHOES OF WEDDINO-BELLS. 


YEAR — a busy year for Philip and 



Justina St. John — had passed since our 
story opened. 

Justina was out on the porch among her 
flowers when Philip came in from his day’s 
labor. He came out to her with a news- 
paper in his hand. 

“ Read that,” he said, handing the paper 
to her. It was a paragraph headed ‘‘A 
Double Wedding in High Life.” 

Justina’s heart gave a great bound as 
she caught the names of the first couple : 
‘‘Sir Ralph Trent of Underwood Hall, 
England, and Miss Corinna, eldest daugh- 
ter of Franklin Ruthven, Esq., of this city.” 
It was some little time before she saw the 
names of the second couple : “ Col. Burton 
Harper and Miss Rosalie Ruthven, second 


ECHOES OF WEDDING-BELLS. 


99 


daughter of Franklin Ruthven, Esq/^ Then 
came an elaborate description of the dresses 
of the brides and bridesmaids, the ceremony, 
the decorations, and a long list of presents. 
The paragraph ended with the announcement 
that the two couples would sail on the steam- 
er Servia, to spend a few months in travel on 
the Continent. 

Justina looked up at Philip. Her first 
impulse was to say, “ Poor Philip !” but as 
she looked at him and saw mentally the vast 
difference between his life and that of Corin- 
na, involuntarily the words came to her lips, 

‘‘ Poor Cora !” 

Yes, poor Cora !’^ he said. “ I am afraid 
she has chosen to feed on husks.” 

‘‘ But it is curious that Hilda never told 
me anything about this; I hear from her 
every week. Do you know she keeps her- 
self posted about our work? She knows 
every scheme we have in hand, and I 
strongly suspect that some anonymous dona- 
tions we receive come from her. What will 
she do now, I wonder ? She has put off* her 
coming out up to this time on the plea that 
three sisters in society at once were too many. 


100 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


Her mother was glad enough to accept it then, 
but now she is the only daughter at home.” 

‘‘ Does she ever speak of the boys ?” asked 
St. John. 

Yes. She seems troubled about Harry ; 
she is afraid he is not doing well.” 

That evening Justina wrote a little note to 
Hildegarde : 

My Dear Hilda : In to-day’s paper we 
read of Cora’s and Rosalie’s wedding. Why 
did you never tell me of it? I see you were 
one of the bridesmaids. You will have to 
come out of your retirement now, will you 
not? Do you think you will be able to stem 
the tide ? It is late, and I must bid you good- 
night. 

“ Your friend, 

“ Justina.” 

The next evening brought the following : 

“Dear Justina: I had two reasons for 
saying nothing of Cora’s wooing. First, I 
did not know whether Philip’s wound had 
healed yet ; and secondly, I was ashamed of 


ECHOES OF WEDDING-BELLS. 101 

the whole business. Sir E-alph is a very 
nice man — upright and honorable — but think 
of the difference between him and Cora ! Not 
that I imagine there can be no love connected 
with disparity in age, but in this case I am 
sure there is not. On Cora’s side, she talked 
of the whole matter in a business-light. Sir 
Ralph admired her, but — Well, I should 
not try to judge other people’s hearts, but I 
see a good deal from my corner, and I have 
never seen Sir Ralph’s features soften and 
the look of tenderness come into his eyes 
that used to be there when he spoke to his 
daughter. Lady Adelaide. 

“ Yes, I was a bridesmaid, Justina, but we 
had a regular battle about it, I assure you. 
When they were planning the wedding, 
choosing the bridesmaids and selecting the 
costumes, I told mamma that I could not be 
a bridesmaid if it implied a decolletee cos- 
tume. She expostulated and entreated, but 
in vain. I told her if she would let me 
choose my own dress I was quite willing to 
be a bridesmaid, but if not I begged them to 
choose some one else. Mamma wanted to 
know my reason for refusing to wear the 


102 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


dress : was I aoy better than Cora or Kos- 
alie, who had always dressed that way ? 
‘ Mamma/ I said, ‘ my Bible does not forbid 
women to ‘‘adorn’’ themselves, but the adorn- 
ing must be “ in modest apparel.” ’ She looked 
at me as if she thought I had taken leave of 
my senses, and Corinna burst out : ‘ Hilde- 
garde Buthven ! I think it is downright 
wicked to quote the Bible about such a thing.’ 
Oh, Justina, what arguments Satan can put 
into our mouths when he wants to make us 
do wrong! ‘Just as if there were a special 
direction in the Bible for your bridesmaid’s 
dress,’ she added. 

“ ‘ No/ I said ; ‘ it is not special, it is a gene- 
ral command to all womankind. But, as I can 
have no control over others, I cannot enforce 
it, but I can obey it myself.’ 

“ ‘ Well, ’ said mamma, with a sigh, ‘ let us 
see what is your idea of a proper dress ; and 
if you don’t make us all ridiculous, we will 
let you wear it.’ I couldn’t help laughing, 
her tone was so doleful. The outcome of the 
discussion was that I got Madame Caron to 
make me a dress according to my ideas. It 
was of white silk, and as nearly as possible 


ECHOES OF WEDDING-BELLS. 


103 


like those of the other bridesmaids — Lady 
Adelaide was one — only I had the upper 
part of the high corsage made of dainty lace. 
Even mamma admitted that it was pretty, 
though I think it was a thorn in her side all 
through the ceremony. She was haunted 
with the fear that every person thought I 
was odd, whereas I don^t believe any one 
thought about me at all. 

“Justina, don’t you think this present 
business is another extravagance ? Why, our 
two girls got nearly forty thousand dollars’ 
worth of presents ! Did they need a single 
article they got? Now, if one was to give 
a deed for a house, or a check to furnish 
with, or any useful present, to a poor strug- 
gling couple beginning life, there would be 
some sense in it; but it is just the reverse: 
the richer the bride is, the more costly are 
the presents. It seems to me it’s a topsy- 
turvey world, anyhow. 

“ When we were looking at the presents 
as they came in one day, I took up a mirror 
the frame of which was studded with pre- 
cious stones. I said to Eosalie, ‘This, now, 
would buy food and clothing for some little 


104 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


family for a year/ — ‘ You mercenary creat- 
ure!’ she exclaimed ; ‘ you have no sentiment 
at all. It is not the value of the article we 
look at, but the feeling that prompts the 
gift.’ That wasn’t exactly an original re- 
mark, but we had an opportunity to see how 
true it was before long. There came another 
ring at the door, and Clara came in with a 
package. It was addressed to Rosalie, and 
she opened it. It contained a pair of 
daintily-embroidered slippers, and with it 
was this note : 

“ ‘ I hope you will prize this little memento. 
I know you have so many costly gifts that 
you really need nothing, and I thought that, 
as these are my own handiwork, they would 
remind you of me when you wear them in 
your hours of rest. 

“‘Isabel Hunter.’ 

“ ‘ “ Miss Hunter ” 1’ exclaimed Rosalie. ‘ I 
should think she would be ashamed to send 
such a paltry thing — a woman of her means I’ 
and the poor slippers were thrown to one side. 

“ I want to tell you about something that 


ECHOES OF WEDDING-BELLS. 105 

happened the night of the reception. (You 
know they received before going away, be- 
cause Sir Ralph and Lady Corinna Trent 
do not expect to be in this country again for 
some time.) I was passing through the hall 
between eleven and twelve o’clock, when I 
saw the footman open the door in answer to 
a timid ring. There stood a miserable, 
thinly-clad woman with a wretched baby in 
her arms. Terence was shutting the door in 
her face, when I stepped forward. ‘ Let her 
come in,’ I said. He stared, but did not say 
anything. I took her as quickly as I could 
through the hall and up the back stairs to my 
own room. There I left her while I went 
down and got her something to eat. She 
sobbed so at first that she could not speak. 
‘ Why are you in the streets at this hour ?’ I 
asked. — ‘I have no place else,’ she said. ‘My 
husband was sick for months, and two days 
ago he died. I was turned out of the miser- 
able place we had been in, and they kept the 
few clothes I had. We have had nothing to 
eat all day, and I could not stand the baby’s 
crying any longer. I felt that I must ask 
something for her, but I didn’t expect this.’ 


106 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


I told her to go to bed whenever she was 
done eating, as I must go down to the com- 
pany. I told her she need have no more 
worry till morning came, and then I left 
her to herself. 

Of course I meant the poor creature to 
sleep in my bed ; I intended to make up a 
bed for myself in my dressing-room. When 
I came back, at one o’clock, I found her 
sound asleep on the floor. I did not dis- 
turb her, but went to bed myself, and slept 
so soundly that I knew nothing till I was 
roused by mamma shaking me and calling, 
‘ Hildegarde ! Have your senses deserted 
you entirely? Who is this woman, and 
where did she come from ?’ At first I was 
too bewildered to know what it was all 
about; but when I did remember about it, 
I could only stammer out, ‘I don’t know, 
mamma, who she is ; I brought her up here 
last night.’ — ‘You must be insane,’ went 
on mamma. ‘How do you know what 
dreadful place she came from ? She may be 
a woman of bad character;’ and mamma 
went over to her and shook her roughly, 
saying, ‘ Wake up !’ I shall not soon forget 


ECHOES OF WEDDING-BELLS. 


107 


the look of terror in the poor woman’s face 
as she opened her eyes. ‘ Mamma,’ I said, 
— I was now thoroughly frightened at what 
I had done — ‘ be gentle with the poor thing, 
please. I feel sure she is not bad, and I 
think there is nothing wrong with her but 
cold and hunger.’ — ‘ She must go away, at all 
events,’ said mother. I hurried my dressing 
while she was talking. ‘ Get up,’ mamma 
said, again, to the woman. ‘ Do you not 
know you should not have come in here to 
the young lady’s room ?’ The poor creature 
sat up, and her baby began to cry. ‘ Yes, 
yes, I know it,’ she said, ‘ but I don’t think 
I rightly knew what I was doing. I was 
starving and it was night, and the young 
lady was so kind ! She brought me in out 
of the cold and gave me food. I know I 
had no right.’ She rose wearily. ‘I will 
go now,’ she said. Mamma rang the bell, 
and Lucy came in. (By the way, it was 
Lucy who first found the poor woman in my 
room, when she came to call me. Horrified, 
she went to mamma, with the result that 
you have seen.) ‘ Lucy,’ she said, ‘ take this 
woman down to the kitchen and give her 


108 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


and tlie child both a good breakfast, and 
then send them away. It is impossible for 
them to stay here.’ 

“ ‘ But, mamma,’ I said, ‘ she has no money ; 
do let me give her some. She has nothing 
with which to pay for lodging; she can’t 
sleep in the streets.’ — ‘ Of course ! They all 
say that,’ mamma said. ‘ But I don’t grudge 
the money ; I want her to go ;’ and she took 
out her own purse and gave it to the woman 
without so much as looking to see what it 
contained. The woman thanked her, and 
then said to me, ‘ The Lord will bless you.’ 
Mother rang again ; and when Clara came 
in, mamma said to her, ‘ Throw open the 
windows, Clara, and air the room thor- 
oughly ; then bring in a pastille and let it 
burn in the room for the rest of the day. — 
Come out instantly, Hildegarde, and do not 
come in here again to-day.’ Well, I know 
now it was a very foolish thing, and I see 
one should not act on impulse ; but what are 
these poor creatures to do ? I verily believe 
that mamma thinks every person below a 
certain grade in society is either a pickpocket 
or something a thousand times worse ; yet she 


ECHOES OF WEDDING-BELLS. 


109 


is charitable and gives largely to various in- 
stitutions. 

‘‘Now, Justina, surely this is full enough 
to compensate for not having written you 
before the wedding. 

“ Your firm friend, 

“ Hildegaede.” 

Hilda was wrong in one thing — namely, 
that no one noticed her particularly among 
the bridesmaids. 

Among Colonel Harper’s friends who were 
present was a young man from Boston named 
Edward Beverly. He thought he had never 
seen any one so charming as Hilda. When 
he went home, he told his sister about her, 
adding, 

“I could not think at first what it was 
that made her seem so different from the other 
girls, but all at once it flashed upon me that 
it was because she was so modestly dressed. 
I mean to find out if she always dresses so ; 
and if she does, it will not be my fault if I 
do not provide a new sister for you.” 


CHAPTER XII. 

THE FIRST BLOW. 

“ why, Philip, Philip ! See here said 
Justina, looking up from the daily 
paper. ‘‘ Alice is dead ! Alice — Barbara’s 
Alice! Yes, there can be no mistake — 
‘Alice, daughter of Mark and Barbara For- 
tescue.’ Oh, Philip, why could they not 
have sent for us ? It was cruel in them not 
to have done so !” 

“ Don ’tjudge harshly, Justina,” said Philip, 
softly ; “ we do not know the circumstances. 
When did she die?” 

“ This morning ; then we can at least go to 
the funeral. It is to be at ten o’clock to- 
morrow. I must go at once and see Barbara, 
Philip. Poor Barbara!” 

Mrs. Fortescue was almost frantic with 
grief. 

“ Oh, I am glad to see you, Justina !” she 
said. “ I could think of nothing but Alice 
no 


THE FIRST BLOW. 


Ill 


from the time she was taken ill. I ought 
to have sent you word, but I forgot. — Oh, 
Alice, Alice ! How shall I do without you 
wailed the poor woman. 

‘‘ What was it, Barbara T’ 

‘‘Diphtheria. I don’t know where she 
could have got it.” 

“ Where are Geoff and Guy ?” 

“ With Frances; we sent them away as 
soon as we knew what it was. I can’t be 
reconciled, Justina. Alice was such a com- 
fort to me ! You do not know.” 

“ Yes, she was a dear, good little creature. 
But think, Barbara, how much better off she 
is than she would have been in this world.” 

“ Oh, I can’t ! I’m sure I would have 
made her happy if she had been left with 
me, and I need her.” 

“Can’t you take your trouble to our heav- 
enly Father, Barbara? Cast your burden 
on the Lord.” 

“ I don’t know how, Justina. How can I 
love him, when he has taken away my dar- 
ling ?” 

The funeral was over, and Mrs. Fortescue 
went back to her lonely house. The full 


112 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


force of its loneliness came to her, for the 
other children could not come home; they 
must stay away until sufficient time should 
elapse for all danger of infection to be over. 
Poor Mrs. Fortescue! All her wealth could 
not fill the void in her heart. Had she 
known what bitterness the future had in 
store for her, she might have thanked God 
for Alice’s death. 

Geoffrey and Guy were at Mr. Esterbrook’s. 
Guy was happy in a certain sense with Lola, 
though they had endless quarrels ; both were 
quite determined on having their own way. 
Lola had never been accustomed to give up 
to any one ; she reigned supreme in her own 
home. 

Geoffrey was restless and miserable; on 
the morning of the third day after the funeral 
he said. 

Can’t I go out. Aunt Frances ? I’m tired 
of being cooped up here.” 

Why, I suppose so,” said Aunt Frances, 
whose impulse was always to grant requests, 
that being much the easier way to dispose of 
them. 

Geoffrey quickened his steps, and was soon 


THE FIRST BLOW. 


113 


entering a fashionable up-town saloon. Did 
the proprietor have no scruples about serving 
the pale, delicate child who asked for his 
glass of wine with as much self-possession as 
a man of thirty ? Apparently not. He was 
blandly polite to the son of the wealthy Mr. 
Fortescue, and after he had drunk off his 
glass showed him into another room, re- 
marking, 

‘‘ I think you will find some other young 
gentlemen here who will help you to pass 
away the time.” 

Could the downward path be made more 
inviting and easy ? When will the followers 
of our Lord be willing to work in his cause 
as earnestly as the servants of the devil do 
in furthering the schemes of their master? 

8 


CHAPTER XIII, 

A REED OB AN OAKf 

H ilda RUTHVEN had been able, to 
use Justina’s expression, to stem the 
tide. As soon as Cora and Kosalie were 
gone her mother brought up the subject of 
her coming out. 

“Mamma,’’ said Hilda, “I want to be just 
as much of a comfort to you as I can, but it 
is best that we should understand each other. 
There are some things that I can never do, 
and that I hope you will not ask me to do. 
You know my opinion about fashionable 
evening-dress. I cannot dance, either — ” 

“ Not dance !” 

“ Hear me out, please, mamma. Neither 
can I attend the opera or the theatre.” 

“ I dare say,” said Mrs. Ruthven, angrily, 
“ you cannot play the piano nor go to a con- 
cert, nor take part in any other innocent 
amusement ?” 


114 


A REED OB AN OAKf 


115 


A card was just then brought in. 

‘ Dr. Atwell/ ’’ said Mrs. Ruthven, look- 
ing at the card. I am glad of his call ; I 
shall get him to help me bring you to your 
senses. This comes of letting you corre- 
spond with Justina St. John ; your head is 
full of her wild, harebrained schemes. Come 
down with me.’’ 

Hildegarde knew that it would be better 
to settle the matter at once and for ever. 

After the greetings were over Mrs. Ruth- 
ven said, 

“ I am very glad you came just at this 
time. Dr. Atwell. Hilda has gotten beyond 
me ; I want to see if she will have any re- 
gard for her pastor’s counsel. I say it is 
"time for her to enter society, and she pre- 
sumes to instruct me on what is proper to be 
done in society.” 

Hilda laughed. 

‘‘ I don’t think you quite do me justice, 
mamma,” she said. “ I only say there are 
certain things that I cannot do.” 

‘‘Well, what are the matters in dispute?” 
asked the doctor. 

“ She has a prudish notion that it is wrong 


116 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


to dress as others do, and must make herself 
conspicuous by being unlike them. She 
talks a lot of nonsense about modesty.” 

‘‘But,” said Dr. Atwell, “it is immodest 
to dress so that you attract attention.” 

“Dr. Atwell,” said Hilda, firmly, “you 
can never persuade me that it is modest to 
dress in a way that makes me blush when I 
look at myself in the mirror.” 

“ Well, well,” he said, “ what other heresy 
does she maintain, Mrs. Buthven ?” 

“ She can’t dance, forsooth !” 

“ What ! doesn’t know how ?” 

“ Dr. Atwell ! Do you think I would so 
neglect a child of mine ? Of course I have 
had her taught dancing. No, no ! Her su- 
persensitive conscience will not let her.” 

“ But, Hilda child,” said the doctor, “ you 
know your mother would not invite any per- 
son to her house with whom it would be im- 
proper for you to dance. If it were a question 
of a ball in some public place, it would be 
different. Besides, you must not forget that 
the best of people danced in old times ; it 
was a religious duty.” 

“ Then I shall be ready to do it, doctor,” 


A REED OR AN OAKf 


117 


said Hilda/‘ whenever it is done as an act of 
worship. When you appoint a dance in 
church some Sabbath, I shall be willing to 
take part in it. But such dances as we see 
now ! Do you believe, doctor, that Miriam 
and the women who were with her waltzed 
or polkaed with the male portion of the 
community ? — Mamma,’’ she continued, turn- 
ing to her mother, tell me truly, now : what 
would you think if you should come in some 
day to the drawing-room, where I was enter- 
taining a gentleman-acquaintance — any one 
you please — and find him with his arm about 
my waist?” 

“ For shame, Hilda !” rebuked her mother. 

‘ For shame,’ you sa^T-,” said the girl, “just 
at the bare mention of it. Well, then I fail 
to see why you should complain of me be- 
cause I decline to submit to that very 
thing.” 

“ What can there be wrong, then, about 
going to the theatre?” said her mother, not 
caring to discuss the dancing question fur- 
ther. “I’m sure it furnishes an intellectual 
feast. And the opera : where can you hear 
such music as you get there?” 


118 


PHILIP SP JOHN. 


‘‘ I think, mamma, we are all bad enough 
without deliberately sitting down evening 
after evening listening to stories which ex- 
hibit the worse passions of human nature.’’ 

Hilda, you are positively coarse!” said 
her mother, sternly. 

Well, mamma, it is only the truth.” 

“What am I to do, doctor?” said Mrs. 
Ruthven, in despair. “ I have only this one 
daughter now, and must I explain to every 
one her scruples against this and that — ‘ Mrs. 
So-and-So, my daughter thinks you are a 
great sinner,’ and so on ?” 

“ Hilda,” said Dr. Atwell, quietly, “ I 
think we will excuse you from the witness- 
stand.” 

Hilda said “ Good -morning,” and was glad 
to escape to her own room. 

“ Now, Mrs. Ruthven, let me advise you 
to say nothing more to Hilda ; I think these 
things are not to be met with opposition. I 
admit that this is annoying, but you know 
we cannot get through life without trials, and 
you might have those that were a great deal 
worse. I think, by and by, when Hilda be- 
comes a little older and sees more of the 


A REED OR AN OAK? 


119 


world; she will modify her views; she will 
marry, and will look at things in a more 
matter-of-fact way f and with this comfort 
Mrs. Ruthven was forced to be content. 

A day or two after this victory gained by 
Hilda she had a little mortification to under- 
go. The morning paper contained a short 
paragraph entitled “A Female Pickpocket.’’ 
It read as follows : ‘‘ Last night Officer Cade 
committed a middle-aged woman for larceny. 
She was arrested on the complaint of William 
Sparks, grocer. He said that she had enter- 
ed his shop, and after buying a loaf of bread 
asked him if he could tell her of any re- 
spectable lodgings. When she paid him for 
the bread, he saw that she had quite a quan- 
tity of gold in her purse, which was a very 
costly one — of silk, with gold rings. This 
roused his suspicions ; and when she went 
out, he followed her, keeping her in sight 
until he saw Officer Cade. Complaint being 
made to the officer, he immediately arrested 
her, and found Sparks’s statement to be true. 
When the purse was examined, it was found 
to contain twenty-five dollars, most of it in 
gold. The woman declared her innocence. 


120 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


protesting that the purse with its contents 
had been given to her by a lady. On being 
cross-examined she was unable to give the 
name of the lady or to tell where she lived. 
She has a young child with her, and is still 
in custody.’’ 

‘^Oh, papa,” said Hildegarde, who had 
been glancing over the paper, ‘‘ can’t we do 
something for this poor woman ?” and she 
handed him the paper. 

‘‘But why should we? I don’t under- 
stand,” he said, in astonishment, when he 
had read the item. “There are plenty of 
such cases, and they ought to be punished.” 

“ But, papa, it’s true what she says, and 
it’s my fault. Mamma gave her the purse. 
I know it must be the same woman, and I 
can’t bear to think that she should suffer 
through me.” 

“You see what comes of your playing 
at charity, Hilda,” said her father, somewhat 
severely ; “ it only makes you miserable and 
gets into trouble those whom you befriend. 
You would do much better to give to insti- 
tutions, as your mother does, and then you 
would know what becomes of your money.” 


A REED OB AN OAKf 


121 


“Yes, I know,” said Hilda. “Yet there 
seem to be cases which those institutions do 
not reach. What are these to do ?” 

“ How much better off is that woman now 
than she would have been if you had let her 
alone ?” 

“ But, papa, how could I have turned her 
into the dark night? But now — now that 
it is done — isn’t there any way to mend 
it?” 

Hilda looked up at her father with the 
same expression in her eyes that they wore 
when as a child she asked him to mend a 
toy. He began to relent: 

“ Why, yes, if you care very much about 
it. I dare say if I were to write a note to 
Judge Lester she would be dismissed.” 

“ But after she is dismissed what is to be- 
come of her and her child?” 

“ Beally, I do not know, Hilda. If you 
care about trying to get her a place, I might 
ask the judge to send her to the Deering 
House and let you know when she will be 
there. You can send Lucy or some one to 
make inquiries.” 

Mr. Buthven was a prompt man, and 


122 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


Hilda soon had the satisfaction of seeing the 
note despatched. Hilda, in turn, wrote to 
Justina, asking if she would let the woman 
come to her until some work could be found 
for her, and Justina sent Jean to bring her 
to them. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

ST. JOHN^S SCHEMES. 

W E must pass quickly over the next five 
years. Philip St. John was prosper- 
ing in all his work. The day nursery was 
in full operation, and was an invaluable boon 
to the tired mothers. He had succeeded in 
buying the building desired, and the second 
floor was occupied by the children and their 
nurses. Mrs. May was the chief of these, 
but she had under her quite a staff. The 
ground-floor was occupied by shops of vari- 
ous descriptions. The other five stories were 
arranged in suites of from three to five rooms, 
and were let to families. There were in each 
suite a living-room, a kitchen and one or 
three bed-rooms. 

Not only did St. John help the very poor, 
but the carrying out of his schemes provided 
work for many others — builders, agents and 
workmen of various classes. He required 

123 


124 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


no more rent for the improved quarters that 
he had given the tenants than they had paid 
for those occupied by them before, for his 
object was not to make money, but to increase 
the value of the occupants themselves, to 
train them in decency — impossible in the 
crowded quarters occupied by so many — and 
in self-respect, thereby making them worthy 
citizens. He chose rather that his rent should 
be low and punctually paid ; his tenants were 
then able to look him honestly in the face. 

We must here reintroduce our old friend 
Henry Deland. After an honorable career 
in the service of Bow & Arc he had en- 
tered that of Philip St. John. St. John, 
being in need of a special agent to assist him 
in the work of saving the young from the 
snare of gambling, bethought himself of 
Deland, and, having made an amicable agree- 
ment with his employers, offered the post to 
him. During all these years an intimacy 
had been kept up between Mrs. Deland and 
the Mays. When Henry settled down to 
live with his mother, he found them frequent 
visitors. An attachment soon sprung up be- 
tween him and Fannie May, who had grown 


ST, JOHN’S SCHE3fES. 


125 


to be a charming young lady, and this re- 
sulted in their marriage. 

St. John’s coffee-house and reading-room 
were also a success. The latter was plainly 
but attractively furnished, and the literature 
was of the best quality. His librarian was 
a man of like views with himself, and at St. 
John’s request made himself a personal friend 
of all who frequented the room. A short 
service was held every evening at half-past 
seven, and St. John’s special city missionary 
for that district conducted it. 

One of Philip’s favorite schemes was the 
night-school for street-children, held in the 
same building. He was not content with 
offering the advantages of a school to the 
people, but he had his teachers go about 
among them and gather in these little waifs. 
He had also succeeded in inaugurating a 
work among the immigrants who landed at 
Castle Garden. His desire was to stop the 
nefarious traffic carried on by those vultures 
who bring the poor creatures to our shores 
only to enrich themselves. At last he opened 
a home for immigrants to occupy until 
their future could be decided ; hundreds he 


126 


PHILIP ST, JOHN. 


helped to the West. His hardest problem 
to solve was how to free those who had come 
over by contract. They were, of course, in 
debt for their passage-money. Finally, as 
soon as he succeeded in finding out the con- 
tractor to whom a certain person was bound, 
he immediately sent his agent to this person, 
and had him — or her, as was oftenest the case 
— at once taken before a magistrate. He 
then had his agent pay the amount of pas- 
sage-money and take a paper declaring the 
poor immigrant free. St. John’s next care 
was then to find some business by which the 
new-comer could suppport himself, and then 
to allow him by small payments to free him- 
self from debt. It is impossible to estimate 
the good done in this single matter of saving 
the poor dupes who had been induced to leave 
their homes by false representations. In the 
home established for those certified to it from 
Castle Garden persons speaking all the va- 
rious languages were employed. Each de- 
partment had its own interpreter. 

You must not fancy Philip and Justina 
as for ever grinding at the mills ; they took 
care to have many intervals of rest. Philip 


ST. JOHN’S SCHEMES. 


127 


was an organizer, and, being blessed with plen- 
ty of means, had plenty of helpers. Each 
bureau had its chief and its clerks, and St. 
John was kept informed of all that went on. 
He and Justina made new friends not only 
among the poor, but among those who were 
the heart and the soul of all the great re- 
forms going on in the world, and enjoyed 
their cordial sympathy. Their visits to their 
own kindred were few, for Mark Fortescue 
was so bitterly opposed to Philip’s fanaticism 
that they knew it was unpleasant to Barbara 
to receive them. To see Frances they went 
often er, but even to her home they went 
rarely, for it pained them to come into con- 
tact with Bichard Esterbrook’s carelessness 
and Frances’s evident discontent. 

‘‘Justina,” said Frances, on one of the 
occasions on which they went, in answer to 
some earnest words from her sister, “ it is of 
no use for you to talk to me ; I must live in 
a whirl. If I should take time to think, I’m 
afraid I might do something dreadful. You 
innocent child, you don’t know anything. 
Wait till you get a husband and would give 
your right hand for his love, and then know 


128 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


that he doesn’t care a rush for you ; then 
you’ll know what trouble is.” 

‘^But I’m sure you’re wrong, Frances: 
Bichard does love you. If you were only 
to try and be at home more and know each 
other better, you would be happier. Don’t 
speak sharply to Bichard, either, Frances; 
it irritates him, and that reacts on you.” 

It’s too late to better it now,” said Frances ; 
it must go on to the bitter end.” 

Every summer Philip and Justina spent 
a few weeks in the country, in some quiet 
j)lace, to fit themselves for the next year’s 
work. Thus their life-work went on with 
little change except the coming and going of 
guests. Beuben and Bach el did all that was 
in their power to relieve their employers of 
care, and Jean bravely carried her end of 
the load. 


CHAPTEK Xy. 

A WAIF. 

I T was a stormy night in March, and St. 

John was coming home from his office, 
having been detained later than usual. In 
a dark angle on the bank of the river was a 
woman standing, with a shawl over her head. 
St. John paused for a few moments, then 
darted suddenly forward when he saw her 
movements, and seized her by the arm. She 
gave a frightened cry, thinking that he was 
a policeman. 

Hush !” he said, firmly. ‘‘ Walk along 
with me and tell me why you are here.” 

The glimpse she got of St. John^s face re- 
assured her. 

‘‘ I want to take you home to my sister to- 
night,” said Philip, gently. ‘‘ You shall tell 
her your story if you do not care to tell me.” 

“ ‘ To-night ’ !” she said, in accents of de- 
spair. “And after to-night? The same 


130 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


life over again. Oh, why didn’t you let me 
alone ? I might have been at rest now.” 

“ No, not at rest,” he said ; ‘‘ your soul 
would not have been at rest. After death 
the judgment.” 

The judgment doesn’t frighten me as does 
the life I have to live. Why would God 
punish me for trying to escape from a life 
of sin ? You had better not take me to your 
sister,” she said, bitterly ; if she is good, 
I’m not fit to be with her.” 

You think you are not fit to be with 
her; how did you think you were fit to 
enter the company of saints and holy an- 
gels ?” 

Oh,” she said, with a shudder, ‘‘ I didn’t 
think much about it; I was miserable and 
wanted to escape.” 

“ It was a vain hope,” said St. John as he 
rang the bell at his own door. 

Jean had barely opened the door when 
Justina met them in the hall, for she was a 
little uneasy at her brother’s long absence. 
She half started back when she saw his 
strange companion. 

“ Justina,” he said, “ I have brought home 



Philip Rescues a Woman from Self-destruction. Page 130. 





A WAIF. 


131 


a guest ; I shall hand her over to you to take 
care of.’^ 

“ Certainly,” said Justina. — ‘‘ Come with 
me;” and she led the way up the stairs. 
Passing through her own room, she took the 
stranger into the one adjoining, furnished ex- 
actly like her own. “ Now,” she said, tell 
me if you have had supper. If you are 
hungry, come down with me to take some 
food, and then rest till morning ; it will be 
time enough then to tell your story.” 

The perfect trust reposed in her touched 
the stranger, and she sank in a heap on the 
floor and covered her face with her hands. 

‘‘ Oh, I forgot !” she cried. ‘‘ I can’t stay 
here. My work isn’t finished ; and if I 
don’t have it ready to-morrow afternoon. I’ll 
lose more than the price of it in fines. And 
I’ll lose my place, too, if I’m not there in the 
morning at six. If your brother had let me 
alone, I would have been at rest in the river 
now.” 

‘‘ Poor thing !” said Justina, compassion- 
ately. ‘‘Your misery must be great indeed 
if the river seemed like a rest to you. What 
is your work ?” 


132 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


^‘Sewing/’ said the girl, drearily. 

Come, now, let me take you down and 
get you something to eat ; and if you must 
go in the morning, I will see that your work 
is finished.’’ 

The woman — or girl, rather, for she was 
not more than twenty — rose slowly and went 
with Justina to the toilet-table. Justina 
took away her shawl, leaving revealed the 
threadbare shabbiness of the dress it had 
covered. When her face had been washed 
and her hair neatly combed, she was really 
pretty, in spite of the pallor and the thin- 
ness of her features. She went down stairs 
with Justina. 

“Would you rather eat alone, or come in 
and take your meal with my brother and 
myself?” 

“ If it is no more trouble, by myself,” she 
said. 

Justina led the way to the kitchen, where 
Mrs. Taylor and Jean sat. 

“ Mrs. Taylor,” she said, “ I have brought 
you a visitor. Can you give her some sup- 
per and when she is done bring her into the 
dining-room ?” 


A WAIF. 


133 


In about half an hour Jean knocked at 
the door. 

“If you please, Miss Justina,’’ said she 
when she came in, “ will it do jist as weel 
for me to tell you the young girl’s story? 
She has tellt it a’ to Mrs. Taylor an’ me.” 

“Just as well, Jean,” said Justina, “but 
in that case you had better take her to bed 
first and let her get to rest.” 

“Vera weel, mem;” and Jean went out 
and took the stranger up stairs. — “ Ye maun 
jist gang to yer bed like a bairn wha’s 
mither tells’t to. I never yet knew Miss 
Justina or Mr. Philip let a poor creature 
be put upo’. Ye hae fa’en into guid ban’s. 
But dinna gang to bed wi’oot sayin’ your 
prayer.” 

“ Pray !” said the girl. “ I used to pray 
when I was^ a little girl, but I haven’t had 
any time for so long that I forget how.” 

“ Nae wunner ye’ve seen trouble, then, 
lassie,” said Jean. “ Gin ye forget the 
Lord, ye canna complain if he forgets you. 
Whan I was a wean my mither used to .teach 
me to say twa verses o’ David’s Psalms ilka 
nicht an’ twa mair ilka mornin’. I fin’ 


134 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


they’re jist as good, now that I’m a woman, 
as they were then. I wish ye kenn’d 
them.” 

Say them, then,” said the girl ; I think 
I would like to hear them.” 

Jean knelt and repeated in a low, reverent 
voice : 


“ ‘ I will both lay me down in peace, 

And quiet sleep will take, 

Because thou only me to dwell 
In safety, Lord, dost make. 

“ ‘ Into thine hands I do commit 
My spirit, for thou art he, 

0 thou Jehovah, God of truth, 

Who hast redeemed me.’ ” 

She rose and said, I maun gang awa’ down 
the stairs noo, an’ I hope ye’ll rest week” 
Before you go would you mind telling 
me what you used to say in the mornings ?” 
“ I’ll be blithe to do it,” said Jean : 

“ ‘ I laid me down, I slept, I woke : 

The Lord sustained me. 

1 will not fear though thousands ten 
Set round about me be.’ 

‘ Cause me to hear thy loving-kindness in the morning, for in 
thee do I trust.’ ” 


Good-night ; I’ll think about the verses.” 


A WAIF. 


135 


When Jean had closed the door, the wan- 
derer knelt by her bed and said, 

O Lord, I have been a very bad girl. I 
will both lay me down and sleep.” In a 
very short time she slumbered as she had 
not done for years. There was something 
restful in the very atmosphere. 

Meanwhile, Jean told her story down 
stairs : 

“Her name. Miss Justina, she says, is 
Grace Johnson. She cam’ frae the country 
six years ago, whan she was but a bairn ; she 
had seen an advertise ca’in’ for girls to work 
at sew’n. She didna like the farm-life, an’ 
she bid to come, for she was handy wi’ her 
needle. She went to wark for the body that 
she ca’s Madam Nettleby, an’ she says she 
has heaps o’ puir girls like hersel’, an’ they 
wark at starvation prices. What think ye. 
Miss Justina, o’ pay in a puir body seventy- 
five cents for makin’ a cloak that the big 
hooses sell for thirty-five dollars, an’ makin’ 
fine shirts at eighty cents the dozen ? Eh 
me, Miss Justina ! How can the bodies tak’ 
their seats at the Lord’s table wi’ the bluid o’ 
the puir innocents on their hands ? Some o’ 


136 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


them, she says, jist fin’ lodgin’s where they 
can frae nicht to nicht, an’ a heap o’ them are 
in a big buildin’ owned by a vera rich man, 
bat she says she disna think he kens hoo it’s 
used. He jist rents to anither man, an’ he 
jist croods it wi’ the puir bodies and puts 
in an auld woman to cook for them. ‘To 
cook’ ! That I suld ca’ it cookin’ ! It’s jist 
starvin’, Mr. Philip. Weel, she said she culd 
hae borne the work an’ the starvin’, but a 
few months ago home cam’ the son o’ this 
Madam Nettleby frae Germany, or some sic 
outlandish place, an’ after gain’ ower the 
hoose ane day wi’ his lady-mither he pre- 
tended all on a sudden to tak’ a gret inter- 
est i’ the wark. So he kep’ cornin’ an’ cornin’, 
and scoldin’ this ane an’ praisin’ that, an’ 
always stoppin’ an’ say in’ things to her that 
he had nae business to, till the ithers got to 
jeerin’ at her an’ ca’in’ her the young madam. 
An’ at last he tauld her she need wark nae 
mair if she didna want to, an’ she culd hae 
a’ the siller she liked to spend ; an’ sae the 
puir creature jist mad’ up her min’ she wad 
jump into the river an’ end it a’. An’ that’s 
a’ the story, an’ a pitifu’ ane it is.” 


A WAIF. 


137 


Sad indeed, Jean,’’ said St. John. ‘‘ And 
we must find some way to help the others 
as well. And now it is late, Jean ; so go to 
bed.” 

“ Do not let her go away in the morning, 
Jean,” said Justina. 

“ Justina,” said St. John, when Jean had 
left the room, ‘‘ this is a matter that comes 
very near home. Do you know who this 
Madam Nettleby is ?” 

I never heard of her before.” 

‘‘She is the forewoman in the establish- 
ment which supplies Mark Fortescue with 
ready-made clothing for women and chil- 
dren.” 

“ Well,” said Justina, “will it be possible, 
do you think, to bring him to any sense of 
justice?” 

“ I am afraid not,” sadly, “ unless he can 
be made to feel that society disapproves of 
such things.” 

“ Alas ! society in general is sadly indiffer- 
ent,” said his sister. 

Philip went the next day to see Madam 
Nettleby. After learning from her the scale 
of wages, fines and so on — given very un- 


138 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


willingly and under strong pressure — he re- 
luctantly went to report the matter to his 
brother-in-law. He was very coldly re- 
ceived, and after he had made known his 
errand Mr. Fortescue plainly told him that 
he did not feel that he had any responsibil- 
ity in the matter ; his contract was with Mad- 
am Nettleby only, and, having paid her a 
sufficient sum, he thought it only fair that 
she too should have a profit. 

“ But, Mr. Fortescue,’’ said Philip, leav- 
ing out the question of responsibility, do 
you, as an elder in the church, feel no pity 
for these poor creatures who are forced into 
one of two alternatives — slow starvation or a 
life of shame?” 

was an elder, Mr. St. John,” said the 
other, before you ever began your fanatical 
career. You seem to be strongly impressed 
with the idea that any one who does not 
adopt your communistic vagaries is not a 
Christian at all. I do not need you to teach 
me my duty to the poor ; I believe I am not 
known as an illiberal man, but I decline to 
have anything to do with a scheme which 
tends to put skilled and unskilled labor in 


A WAIF. 


139 


the same category. It does away with all 
incentive to improvement. Why should a 
man care to do good work when some crank 
is ready to cry out that he is abused and op- 
pressed, and pamper him up? I must bid 
you good-morning, Mr. St. John; I have 
more important business to attend to.” 

“ I went to him,” said Philip to his sister, 
‘‘because I thought he might be moved to 
do justice to these poor people; it was more 
for his own sake than for theirs. We can 
easily open an institution where they can be 
lodged and boarded respectably, and where 
they will have no temptation to become 
worse than they are. We must set about it 
at once, and in the mean time I must look 
out persons who will visit all these women 
and girls in their own homes and give me 
their exact circumstances. I think in ar- 
ranging I will have one building entirely for 
those girls who have no relatives. Each floor 
will be separate, with one kitchen for all, and 
each floor shall have its own matron, to see 
to the personal comfort of the inmates and 
to their moral and spiritual welfare.” 


CHAPTER Xyi. 

AT MADAM NETTLEBY’S. 

L et us go ourselves to Madam Nettleby’s 
and look through the establishment. 
Hows of sewing-machines keep up a con- 
tinual clatter; pale-faced women and girls, 
feeling as though they themselves were ma- 
chines, tramp, tramp almost from morning 
till night. In another room were those who 
basted and prepared the work for the ma- 
chines, and a number of little old-faced chil- 
dren who carried it to the machines when it 
was ready. In other rooms were the finish- 
ers — those who put on trimmings and but- 
tons, made buttonholes and sewed on hooks 
and eyes. In each room was an overlooker 
of the “ Sambo ’’ and Quimbo ’’ style, 
whose business it was to report the finable 
ofiences, such as speaking and leaving one’s 
place during work-hours. These function- 
140 


AT MADAM NETTLED Y’S. 


141 


aries seemed to take a fiendish delight in 
reporting these breaches of rules, and it was 
whispered that they received a small per- 
centage on the amount of fines ; of course 
the more fines there were to deduct from the 
pittance paid to these poor drudges, the 
greater was Madam Nettleby’s weekly profit. 
There were no names in this model estab- 
lishment, only numbers. 

“ Where’s Grace ?” whispered one of the 
girls to another the morning after St. John’s 
adventure, vainly hoping to escape the notice 
of the overlooker under cover of the whir 
of the machines. 

‘‘ Fines,” said the other, laconically ; but 
her warning came too late. 

“ Fifty-three,” called the inquisitor, “ five 
cents.” He had seen the motion of the girl’s 
lips, though he had heard no sound. 

The day dragged on its weary length, and 
at last came the half hour for lunch. This 
was sold and eaten in the work-rooms, to 
save the time consumed in going out, and 
perhaps, also, to gain the two cents per capita 
charged to each girl for lunch, whether eaten 
or not. 


142 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


The recess gave the girls the use of their 
tongues, at least. 

“ Oh, my side !’’ said a pale middle-aged 
woman, dropping her head on the machine. 
‘‘I don’t see how I can sew another stitch, 
but I can’t afford to lose half a day’s work.” 

It’s a shame !” said the girl who sat next 
her as she handed over her two cents and 
took the dark sour bread and muddy coffee 
carried around by the waiter. After you’ve 
been here so long and steady, and they know 
how sick you are-!” 

“ If I could only work at home, Jen could 
turn for me, and I could guide the work.” 

‘‘ Did you ask ?” said the girl. 

“ Yes,” said the woman, wearily, ‘‘ but it’s 
no use ; they will not let me.” 

“Where is Grace, Kate?” asked the girl 
who had been fined for asking the same 
question during working-hours. 

“I don’t know,” said the other. “You 
might have waited till recess to ask; you 
would have saved your money.” 

“But,” persisted the other, “wasn’t she 
home at all last night?” 

“ No, she wasn’t,” said Kate, crossly, “ and 


AT MADAM NETTLEBY’S. 


143 


I’m not going to ask where she was. When 
girls are starving and are treated as we are, 
the faster they go to ruin the better. She 
told me yesterday she would throw herself in 
the river to get rid of that — ” 

Hush !” said Jane ; here he comes.” 

“ I don’t care,” said Kate, defiantly; ‘‘I 
can’t be fined in lunch-time.” 

Young Nettleby, strolling through the 
room, looked sharply about him. 

“ Where is Seventy-eight ?” he asked, 
roughly, as he stood before the two girls. 

Kate lifted her piercing eyes, and, looking 
the speaker directly in the face, said, 

‘Hn the river. I think you know what 
sent her there. Hadn’t you better have it 
dragged ?” 

With a muttered curse the baffled young 
profligate strode savagely away. 

“You’ll sufier for that yet, Kate,” said 
Jane ; “ he’ll have you turned oflP.” 

“ Wouldn’t I make him sufier if I could !” 
said Kate, through her shut teeth. “ And 
all vermin like him. I hope what I said will 
haunt his dreams.” 

Still farther on was a pretty girl with 


144 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


wavy hair and a bright spot glowing on 
either cheek. 

Take it/’ she said to a coarse, stout-look- 
ing woman beside her. 

Och ! Can’t you ate it, darlin’ ?” said 
the other, whose soft voice was in strange 
contrast with her coarse face. 

No,” said the girl, with a shiver ; “ the 
sight of it makes me sick. I’ve such a sharp 
pain in my side, too.” 

A quick, dry cough cut short her words ; 
and when the spasm was past, the cold drops 
stood on her brow. 

‘‘ Och, child, but me heart ye ! But what 
kin I do? I’ll just take the bit of bread if 
you are sure you do not want it, honey.” 

‘‘No, no!” 

“I’ll take it home to the poor childer; 
it’s little enough they get Your cough’s 
dreadful. Where do you slape, thin ?” 

“ Up in a garret, four of us,” said Bessie ; 
“ but there is only one thin quilt and I sleep 
at the edge, and the girls pull the cover off 
me, so I don’t get much of what there is.” 

“ Thin I’ll tell you what, darlin’ : jist come 
away home wi’ me, and you’re welcome to what 


AT MADAM NETTLEBY’S. 


145 


we’ve got. We’ve a cellar that’s warmer nor 
a garret, and there’s tin of us slapes in it. 
Mike got us a purty hape of shavin’s, and 
you’ll be warmer with me and the childer 
than where you are.” 

“ Oh, you’re very good,” said the girl. 
‘‘ I haven’t had any one to care whether I 
lived or died since mother left me.” Again 
the cough interrupted her. 

‘‘Deb, haven’t you got any shoes but 
them?” said Selina Crane, looking at the 
sodden, shapeless mass of leather held to the 
register to gather a little warmth. 

“ No,” said Deb, sullenly, “ and I ain’t 
likely to have. Half my wages went in 
fines last week.” 

In a distant corner was a group of loud- 
talking, noisy girls much better dressed than 
the others. They were crowded around a 
childish-looking creature not more than six- 
teen. She was a new-comer — one of those 
poor creatures who, deluded by specious ad- 
vertisements, leave their country homes hop- 
ing to make their fortunes in the city. Start- 
ing with barely enough money to pay her fare, 
she had found her way to this establishment. 

10 


146 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


She had spent the last two nights in a miser- 
able lodging-house where her soul was sick- 
ened with the sound of oaths and brutal 
quarreling, but to-night — What was she 
to do to-night? The few pence she had 
brought from home were gone ; she had not 
even a cent with which to buy the lunch her 
yet healthy young appetite craved. The 
merriment of the girls about her had been 
caused by her asking if they did not suppose 
she could be paid now for what she had done 
the two days previous. 

Pay you echoed one, while all the rest 
shouted with laughter. No, not if you were 
to fall dead with hunger among their feet ; 
they would only shove you to one side and 
call out, ‘ Another hand wanted for One-hun- 
dred-and-ten !’ ” 

But what shall I do V’ asked the poor 
child ; and the tears began to flow. 

‘‘I declare,” said Bride Casey, ^‘if the 
baby isn’t crying! You’d better stop that 
whimpering pretty quick before Dan comes 
about; he’ll flne you.” 

You had much better give up trying to 
be a saint,” said Etta Smith, with a sneer; 


AT MADAM NETTLEBY’S. 147 

‘‘it doesn’t pay in this town. You come 
with us, and you’ll have plenty of money.” 

J ust at this moment a tall, haggard woman 
whose wild, wan face still bore traces of for- 
mer beauty strode into the group. 

“ Have you no shame left,” she said, 
fiercely, “ that you would make her as bad 
as yourselves ? Leave the child alone, can’t 
you?” 

“ What better are you than we ?” asked 
Gip Moore, pertly. “Our roads are about 
alike.” 

“ I am this much better,” she said, haugh- 
tily — “ that I am not low enough to try to 
drag an innocent child after me. I could 
take a knife and thrust it into her heart,” 
she said, with a wild gleam in her eyes, “ but 
I couldn’t blacken an innocent soul like that. 
— Come with me, child,” she added, impera- 
tively, reaching out her hand to the girl. 
“No one shall touch you while I’m by.” 

“ She’s crazy,” said Tillie Harrow ; “ don’t 
go.” 

But Bessie took the hand offered to her, 
and the woman led her away to where she 
worked. 


148 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


Eat this/’ she said, giving her some bread 
and meat. ‘‘And don’t you go near those 
girls more than you would touch poison ; 
keep close to me. I’ll find you lodging.’^ 

The pair was an ill-assorted one — the 
dark, fierce, haggard-looking woman with 
the traces of sin on her face and the inno- 
cent girl. 

In a dark corner, in the shadow of a pro- 
jecting wall, was another scene. An elfin- 
looking child — one of the messenger-girls — 
was whispering to a small companion : 

“ I’ve got a big piece of flannel. I slipped 
into the closet when Dan’s back was turned, 
and I wound it all round me under my dress. 
When we get out. I’ll whip off and pawn it, 
and we’ll have a good supper.” 

“ What if they catch you ?” 

“ Oh, they won’t,” said the little one, 
already old in wickedness; “I’m too sharp 
to be caught by ’em.” 

The bell rang ; the half hour was up, and 
the slaves were on the treadmill again. 

“ Oh, my side !” again cried the poor weary 
woman ; but the relentless machine must go 
on. 


AT MADAM NETTLEBY’S. 


149 


‘^What is that?” Dan looks sharply 
around. “ Who dares stop her machine ?” 
His practiced ear misses the click of one. 
He looks up and down the long row. 

Twenty-two !” he shouts, peremptorily, as 
he sees the woman’s head fallen forward on 
the machine. 

But Twenty-two pays no attention. How 
dare she be so insubordinate ? Dan goes for- 
ward, lifts the head with a sharp jerk, then, 
as if a scorpion had stung him, lets it fall 
again with a dreadful oath. The woman is 
dead. Only a few moments were those tire- 
less machines stopped, and only those nearest 
to Twenty -two, while the still form was car- 
ried out. 

‘‘ Dead, did you say ?” said Madam Net- 
tleby as the report was brought to her. 
‘^Dear me! How very vexatious just in 
this press ! How these miserable creatures 
do impose on one I They really ought not to 
try to work when they give out so soon. 
Well, go and tell Miss Simpson to send some 
one from the finishing-room and Madain 
Nettleby turned to give some sharp direc- 
tions about the cutting: ‘‘Dear me, Eliza, 


150 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


but you are stupid ! That’s last month’s 
pattern. If you had used that, you would 
have spoiled the whole lot. Who would 
wear sacques a mouth behind the style? 
You really must be more careful, or I shall 
have to discharge you.” 

The place of Twenty-two was supplied 
from the finishing-room, and all went on as 
before, but five more motherless children 
were added to the orphans of New York. 

“ When he inqnireth after blood 
He then remembereth them : 

The humble folk he not forgets 
That call upon his name ; 

Nor they that needy are shall not 
Forgotten be alway ; 

The expectation of the poor 
Shall not be lost for aye.’^ 


CHAPTER XYII. 

A VICTIM. 

A gain there was a brilliant assembly in 
the drawing-rooms of Mark Fortescue. 
Philip St. John’s vagaries were under dis- 
cussion. 

“ I do not know what the world is coming 
to/’ said Mr. Huthven. “There seems to 
have arisen an army of cranks whose busi- 
ness it is to uncover all the moral and social 
sinkholes they can find, and let the pesti- 
lential odors loose all through society.” 

“ Yes,” rejoined his host, “ and it has even 
invaded the pulpit. As if there were not 
enough in the Bible to preach about, these 
innovators must drag in the question of wages 
paid to employes, of the time they should 
be required to work, and such temporal 
things. If they would give their hearers a 
few sermons like Dr. Atwell’s, here, about 

151 


152 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


the New Jerusalem, it would elevate them 
and lift them above these worldly subjects.” 

A general murmur of approbation ran 
around the table. 

Seems to me,” said Richard Esterbrook, 
when the applause had subsided, that there 
is something in the Bible like this : ‘ The hire 
of the laborers which have reaped down 
your fields, which is of you kept back by 
fraud, crieth.’ It’s a long time since I have 
read the Bible, but I did read it when I was 
a boy, and some of those words stick like 
burs in a man’s memory. I think it says, 
too, something about ‘six days shalt thou 
labor, and rest on the seventh,’ and every- 
body about you, even the servants and the 
beasts.” 

“It’s a pity,” said his brother-in-law, 
“that you do not try the experiment and 
prohibit work on your lines on Sundays.” 

“ I fancy,” said Colonel Harper, “ that Mr. 
Esterbrook would find that plan rather chi- 
merical. It is sheer folly to suppose that all 
the trafi&c of a great country like this must 
stop for one-seventh of the time.” 

“ Tempora mutantur,^ said Dr. Atwell. 


A VICTIM. 


153 


“ It is not to be supposed that the same po- 
litical economy which suited a few thousand 
Jews wandering in a wilderness applies to 
these days of steam and electricity/’ 

‘ And rested the seventh day/ ” said 
Richard Esterbrook, musingly. ‘‘ Strange ! 
It must have been a mere accident that the 
whole universe didn’t go to pieces because 
work was stopped that day.” 

“ Still,” said Mr. Fortescue, sore over the 
implied censure by Richard Esterbrook, if 
you can see this so plainly, I do not under- 
stand why you ignore it in practice.” 

‘‘ Oh, that’s easy enough,” said the other, 
lightly. I don’t profess to try to do what’s 
right, so I don’t have any shortcomings.” 

A quick, imperative ring at the door, and 
in a few moments a footman entered and 
gave a message to Mr. Fortescue. 

‘‘ Esterbrook,” the latter said to his broth- 
er-in-law, a telegram has been brought to 
the door for you.” 

Esterbrook arose, and was gone for a few 
moments only when he returned with a 
shocked face. 

“ Friends,” he said, ‘‘ I hope you will ex- 


154 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


cuse me ; I have received news of an acci- 
dent on the road, and must go in person to 
examine into it. — Frances,” going to his wife’s 
side, “ do not wait for me ; I must go right 
off down into Pennsylvania, and shall not be 
back to-night.” 

It is not essential to our story to inquire 
what went on at Mr. Fortescue’s after Ester- 
brook’s departure; let us go away to the 
home of an overworked railroader in Penn- 
sylvania. 

‘‘ Really, Rob,” said Agnes Kirkland, 
you can’t go on this way. To work seven 
days in the week ! I’m sure it is not right.” 

‘‘ It’s very well to say that,” replied her 
husband, sharply, ‘‘but what are we to do 
if I don’t work seven days in the week? 
You know I don’t know anything but en- 
gineering, and I do know that thoroughly. 
If I say I will not work on the Sabbath, I lose 
my place. Where will we turn then ? Is 
there a railroad in the country that doesn’t 
run on the Sabbath? No ; I must go on. The 
Lord knows I don’t want to work. Wouldn’t 
I rest and go to church fast enough if I 
could ? I think He will know it’s those that 


A VICTIM, 


155 


are the guilty ones who sit in their soft pews 
and throw into the collection the money we 
bring in for them.’’ 

But, Rob,” she said, ‘‘ I’m afraid we’ll 
have to stand or fall to ourselves, and we 
ought to have faith enough to trust the Lord 
if we do what’s right.” 

‘‘ Well,” he said, wearily, “I can’t see my 
way clear to give it up. You are a good lit- 
tle woman, Agnes ; pray for me, for I need 
it. Now I must go. Good-bye. — Come, 
children !” 

The little ones came trooping in with their 
noisy “ Good-bye,” and Robert Kirkland’s 
eyes filled with tears. Somehow, he did not 
understand what made him so weak this 
evening. At the door he turned and kissed 
his wife again, then went out into the street. 

I wish papa didn’t ever have to go away,” 
said little Annie. 

‘‘ Mamma,” said Arthur, ‘‘ why does papa 
work on Sabbath ? You don’t, and you 
don’t allow us to play.” 

‘‘ I’m sorry, children,” said Agnes, that 
he should have to work, but just now there 
seems to be no other way. The rich people 


156 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


for whom he works would turn him off if 
he wouldn^t work, and then what would we 
all do for bread?” 

“ Lottie Graveses papa goes to church al- 
ways,” said Hetty. “ I s’pect the Sabbath is 
for rich people.” 

The little voices chattered on, the children 
soon forgetting the important matter under 
discussion, but it echoed and re-echoed in 
poor Agnesis heart. Two days later, in the 
early morning, she heard the newsboys cry- 
ing the morning papers : Latest news ! 
Great accident on the Railroad ! En- 

gineer, brakeman and eighteen passengers 
killed !” 

The boys passed on to cry their papers in 
other ears, but Agnes Kirkland’s heart stood 
still: ‘‘Was it Robert’s train, or not?” As 
soon as her trembling fingers could complete 
her dressing she hurried out to the street to 
secure the paper that would turn her trem- 
bling suspense into dread certainty. 

While Agnes was thus engaged Richard 
Esterbrook was on the scene of the accident. 
He was not the gay, nonchalant man who 
had sat a few hours before at Mark Fortes- 


A VICTIM. 


157 


cue’s table ; the groans of the suffering fell 
on his ears and the pale faces of the dead 
met his eyes. 

Poor fellow !” he exclaimed as he stood 
with the division superintendent and the 
physician beside the still form of the en- 
gineer. 

He was a good, faithful man,” said the 
superintendent, “ and leaves a wife and four 
children.” 

“ She must be provided for,” said Ester- 
brook. Give her two thousand dollars a 
year. If any one objects, tell me; I will be 
responsible.” He felt in his breast what a 
mockery money compensation would be to 
the woman’s heart bleeding with loneliness 
and grief. 

When in his own room in the hotel that 
night poor Esterbrook took his usual way to 
drown trouble and deaden feeling : he drank 
until he forgot them. After all, he was 
more to be pitied than was Agnes Kirkland 
mourning for her husband. She had com- 
fort; he found none except in oblivion. 


CHAPTER XYIII. 

MISS A RB. 

P hilip and Justina St. John are looking 
forward to a great pleasure : it is no less 
than a visit from Philip’s friend Dr. Heath- 
cote. Little Maud is now a tall and slender 
maiden of sixteen, and her mother has at 
last consented to let her come to America to 
attend school. 

A carriage stops before the house. Jus- 
tina opens the door before the bell can be 
rung, and there stands Philip, who presently 
leads up the steps a quiet, pleasant-faced wo- 
man whom he introduces as Mrs. Heath cote. 
Behind her comes Maud, and then Boy, a 
boy of twelve, and lastly Dr. Heathcote, 
leading Hattie, a child of seven, utterly be- 
wildered with the noise and confusion of the 
great city. They were welcome guests, and 
they and Justina did not feel any strange- 

158 


MISS ABB. 


159 


ness, so well had they learned to know each 
other by correspondence. This was to be 
their home while they stayed, and Maud was 
to be left in Justina’s care when their visit 
was ended and they should return to their 
work. 

How much there was to tell on both sides ! 
St. John was delighted to hear of the good 
being done with his thank-offering. Dr. 
Heathcote’s colleague. Dr. Goodwin, who 
went out at St. John’s request, had proved 
a true yokefellow, and together they labored 
in all departments of the mission work. 

‘‘ But now,” said Dr. Heathcote, we have 
an application from a region far inland for 
another physician. If we can find a young 
man willing to go with us, one of us will 
take charge of the new station — at least, for 
a time, till our new brother learns the lan- 
guage. I must begin my search immedi- 
ately; so. Miss St. John, prepare to have 
your house turned into an inquiry-ofiice.” 

‘‘ I shall be very glad indeed,” replied 
Justina. 

Here, for a little while, we will leave our 
friends from the East. 


160 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


‘‘Justina/’ said Philip, one evening, ‘‘I 
am at my wit’s end about my emigrants. I 
need a woman who can speak German and 
French, and I have been trying in vain to 
find one. I think I will have to turn the 
affair over to you.” 

‘‘ I will advertise,” said J ustina. 

‘‘ Whatever way you like, so that you get 
me a suitable person.” 

W ANTED.— A LADY THOROUGHLY CONVERSANT WITH 
German and French to attend Tuesdays, Thursdays and Sat- 
urdays in the Emigrants’ Home from 12 M. till 4 P. M. Salary 
good. Apply to R. Field, at the Emigration Office. 

This was the advertisement that Hilda 
Puthven read the next morning after its in- 
sertion in the paper. She went quickly to 
her desk and dashed off the following : 

“A lady thoroughly conversant with Ger- 
man, French, Italian and Kussian is willing 
to attend not only on Tuesdays, Thursdays 
and Fridays, but also two hours on Sabbath. 

‘‘ H. P.” 

‘‘How does that look?” she said, laugh- 
ingly. “I would like so much to do it! 
Why shouldn’t I ? Mamma has become re- 
signed to my eccentricities, and I believq 
likes me fairly just as I am. This will be 


MTSS ARR. 


161 


much the same as attending committee- meet- 
ings. Yes, I will,” she said, decidedly. 
“ But I’ll not put it in the paper ; I’ll send 
it direct to Justina. But no; I will not. 
It will be much better for her to know noth- 
ing about it. I shall just apply to Mr. Field. 
I shall make myself a new name for the oc- 
casion.” 

It so happened that Hilda was personally 
acquainted with Mr. Field, chief of the 
bureau at the Emigrants’ Home. The next 
day, closely veiled, she made her appearance 
in his office. 

‘‘ Miss Buthven !” he said, in a. tone of 
polite astonishment, as he offered her a chair. 
‘‘ Can I serve you in any way ?” 

“ I came,” she said, with reference to 
your advertisement for a helper in your Ger- 
man and French work.” 

Oh !” he said. I shall be very grateful 
if you can recommend any one, for we have 
not been at all satisfied with those whom we 
have had lately.” 

“ You may not be satisfied with my can- 
didate, either,” she said, smiling. ‘‘ I should 
like to engage in the work myself.” 

11 


162 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


You, Miss Ruthveu ?’’ he exclaimed, iu 
wonder. 

“ Y es. Why not ?” asked Hilda. I have 
plenty of time, and I can bring you testi- 
monials of my proficiency in four languages 
if you desire it.” 

“I should not think of asking it. But 
you know, Miss Buthven, this is very hard 
work, and it requires steady application.” 

You are a little afraid, Mr. Field, I 
see,” said Hilda. 

“ Well, you can understand,” he said, 
with some embarrassment, that it would be 
very inconvenient to be left suddenly with- 
out a helper if — ” 

Do not trouble yourself about that, Mr. 
Field ; I shall not desert you without pro- 
viding some one to take rny place. I assure 
you I mean work ; that is just what I want.” 

“Very well, then; shall I write down 
your name?” 

That’s a difficulty,” she said. I would 
prefer not giving my name, but I suppose I 
must have one.” 

“ My books must go to Mr. St. John every 
month.” 


MISS ARR. 


163 


‘‘ Write my name, then, as Miss R. Spell 
it A-r-r ; that will sound enough like a Ger- 
man name;” and Hilda rose to go. “You 
can depend upon me to come to-morrow at 
twelve o’clock to begin my work.” 

“ But, Miss Ruthven,” said the chief, in 
perplexity, “ we have said nothing about 
salary yet.” 

“True,” she said. “Well, I’ll forego the 
salary.” 

“ But I must have an answer for Mr. St.; 
John.” 

“ Oh ! Well, then, pay me whatever is 
customary.” 

It was several months afterward that Mrs. 
Ruthven said to her husband, 

“ I do not know what new business Hilde- 
garde has taken up. She goes out regularly 
three times a week at half-past eleven, and 
gets home at half-past four.” Mrs. Ruthven 
did not mention her absence on Sabbaths, for 
the very good reason that she was oblivious 
of the whole world at that hour. “ I am 
not sure that she may not be giving music- 
lessons or drawing-lessons, or something of 
that sort, but I really don’t dare to ask her. 


164 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


for I haven’t the strength to have a differ- 
ence with her.” 

‘‘ Let her alone,” said Mr. Euthven, grim- 
ly ; she is not attending races nor loafing in 
clubs, at all events. I venture to say that 
Hilda will do nothing to disgrace herself. 
Better not meddle with her.” 

Philip and Justina St. John were much 
gratified by Mr. Field’s monthly reports, 
stating that they had never had such satis- 
factory work in the foreign department, which 
was so named to distinguish it from that in 
which those who spoke English were received. 
Miss Arr, in addition to her weekly labors in 
receiving, arranging and classifying the new- 
comers and finding places for them, held re- 
ligious services on the Sabbath, giving half 
an hour to each division — German, French, 
Italian and Bussian. 

“We must invite her to come and see us, 
that we may get acquainted with her,” said 
Justina. 

Miss Arr sent through Mr. Field a polite 
regret that she could not accept the kind 
invitation, as her time was fully occupied.. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

WHIMS. 

I T was now six years since Corinna Huth- 
ven became Lady Corinna Trent. She 
was making her first visit to New York, but 
Sir Halph was not with her; he had died 
during the previous year, leaving a hand- 
some jointure to her as guardian of his son 
and heir, Huthven Trent. Her boy was not 
with her : she felt that he would hamper her 
movements, and she had left him with his 
nurse, under the care of Mrs. Griswold, her 
husband’s trusted housekeeper. And, in 
truth, he was much more likely to be cared 
for by her than by his lady-mother. When 
Corinna chose the world, she gave herself to 
it entirely. And it had not used her kindly. 
Her own bloom was gone, and she had vainly 
endeavored to replace it by the artificial, which 
had made sad havoc with her once beautiful 


165 


166 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


complexion. There remained only a faded, 
jaded woman who spoke with a tone of au- 
thority which gave the impression that her 
residence in the Old World had proved con- 
clusively that all Americans were decidedly 
plebeian. In society she wa& sparkling and 
condescending. 

“ Hilda, ”'she said, one evening, pettishly, 
as they sat alone, is insufferably dull 
here. Has society never forgiven Philip St. 

John r 

No,’’ said Hilda ; “ you set society such a 
good example by throwing him overboard 
that it has never paused in its race to pick 
him up.” 

Has he never come here again ?” 

“ No, he has not.” 

‘‘ Have you ever seen him ?” 

‘‘Yes, several times, but he did not see 
me. 

“ How does he look ? Miserable ?” 

“ Not a bit !” said Hilda, emphatically. 
“ He looks just like what he is — a busy, 
brave, useful man. How could any person 
be miserable who makes so many thousands 
of people happy?” 


WHIMS. 


167 


“ Have you ever gone there ?” 

“Several times, to see Justina. She and 
I correspond regularly, so I know what they 
are doing.” 

“ Is it true that Philip uses all his fortune 
for the poor ?” 

“ It’s true that he does just what he told 
you six years ago he would do.” 

“ What do he and Justina live on ?” 

“On two thousand dollars a year,” said 
Hilda, laughing. 

“But how can they? What kind of a 
house have they?” 

“As neat as a pink, and they have the 
nicest old lady to cook for them ; and her 
husband — ” 

“ Whose husband? Is Justina married?” 

“ No, no ! Mrs. Taylor’s husband. He’s 
just like an old country uncle. Justina 
sends him home with me in the car. And 
their maid — it is as good as a feast to talk to 
Jean.” 

“Well, I’m sure they can’t have much 
comfort out of that sum. It wouldn’t begin 
to buy silver for us.” 

“ Oh, they are vulgar,” said Hilda ; “ they 


168 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


use plated spoons and forks. Justina says 
they don’t have any fear of thieves.” 

“ Well, I’m glad I wasn’t dragged into it,” 
said Corinna. ‘‘I wonder,” she continued, 
“if he would know me?” 

“ Well, I hope you will not undertake to 
gratify your curiosity,” said Hilda. 

“ Why ?” asked Corinna, looking at Hilda 
sharply. “ Why have you never seen him ? 
Why do you go only when he is not there ?” 

“ Because,” said Hilda, “ I do not think he 
has any cause to remember gratefully the 
Buthven name, and I do not care to recall it 
to him. Let us talk about something else, 
Cora. What do you think the advantages 
of society have done for our boys?” 

“They are genteel-looking fellows.” 

“ Well, they know Philip St. John. Harry 
and Frank would be as dissipated as Lew 
Creighton and a dozen others I could men- 
tion if Philip had not succeeded in getting 
an influence over them. Frank had not gone 
very far away, but Harry had gotten just far 
enough to think it wasn’t manly to listen to 
me, and he was in a bad set. They led him 
to going to races, and all sorts of folly. I 


WHIMS. 


169 


wrote to Justina and asked her if she would 
not get Philip to try and do something for 
Harry ; he did, and was able to befriend him. 
It has made a great change in both the boys. 
They are busy and happy.’’ 

Hilda did not know how much her own 
kind sisterly counsel had helped both her 
brothers. 

“ And you yourself, Hilda ? Mamma says 
you are as odd as can be. Why can’t you 
behave like a rational being in society ? Ho 
you know you are almost an old maid ? You 
might have been in a home of your own if 
you had not been so peculiar.” 

Thank you !” said Hilda, laughing. 
“ I’m quite at home here.” 

It was just about that time that our old 
friend Edward Beverly made another visit 
from Boston. Soon after his determination 
to know more of Hildegarde Ruthven he had 
been forced to take his sister to Italy. She 
lingered on, still unable to return ; he then 
took her to Egypt, and there, after a stay of 
two years, she left him. He came home 
alone, and in his restless state of mind wan- 


170 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


dered about from place to place, settling no- 
where. In rummaging through his desk one 
day in a fit of industry he turned over an 
envelope containing wedding-cards : Col. 
Burton Harper — Miss Rosalie Buthven.” 
As if by magic there flashed across his 
mental vision the picture of a graceful, ani- 
mated girl with deep gray eyes, dressed in a 
soft, high-made robe of white. The very 
thing!” he exclaimed, starting to his feet. 
“ 111 go to New York and hunt her up.” 

But on thinking it over it came to Ed- 
ward’s mind that his acquaintance was very 
slight, and that he could not drop in on the 
Harpers unannounced. Burt is a very far- 
out cousin, after all. Well, I’ll write, at all 
events;” so he took out paper and began: 

‘‘Dear Burton: Will you be at home 
next week ? If you are, and can accommo- 
date me, I shall do myself the honor to run 
down and see you. 

“ Your affectionate cousin, 

“ Edward Beverly.” 

This brought an immediate answer from 


WHIMS. 


171 


the colonel, assuring Edward that he and 
Mrs. Harper would be delighted to see him. 
So Monday morning found him en route for 
New York. The evening after his arrival 
he and Colonel Harper sat talking in the 
room of the latter. 

“ Well, colonel,’’ he said, “ Mrs. Harper 
looks just as well as she did when I was at 
your w^edding. What of the other bride 
— the sister who married the English bar- 
onet ?” 

Oh, have you not heard ? Her husband 
died a year ago, and she is now making her 
first visit at her father’s.” 

Has time used her as gently as it has 
done Mrs. Harper?” 

‘‘ Well, no,” said the coloneh ‘‘ In fact, 
she has fallen off a good deal ; but I fancy 
she thinks that her position and her title 
compensate for all that.” 

“ There was another sister, was there not,” 
said Beverly — ‘‘ a younger one ?” 

‘‘Oh yes! Hildegarde,” said the colonel, 
with an amused laugh. “ She is an eccentric 
creature, as full of whims and fancies as any 
one well could be.” 


172 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


« « Whims ’ !” said Beverly. ‘‘ I should not 
have thought her whimsical.” 

Well, perhaps you could not call them 
whims exactly, but Hilda is different from 
everybody else. We recognize the fact, and 
let her alone.” 

This was not encouraging, and Beverly 
determined to pursue his researches. 

“ What are some of her notions ?” he 
inquired. 

‘‘Well, ask her to dance with you some 
evening, or to go to the theatre,” said the 
colonel, laughing. “ You’ll get her views 
at first hand ; she’ll make them sound bet- 
ter than I could. We must take you around 
some of these days.” 

So Mr. Beverly was taken to the Buth- 
vens’, and renewed his acquaintance with 
Miss Hildegarde. 

Soon afterward Mrs. Colonel Harper in- 
vited her friends to a grand dance in honor 
of the young gentleman from Boston. To 
his astonishment and disappointment, Hilda 
was not present. 

“ Where is your sister to-night ?” he said, 
when an opportunity offered of speaking to 


WHIMS. 


173 


Harry Ruthven. ‘‘ I hope she is not indis- 
posed V 

“ Oh, not at all,’’ said Harry, with a smile. 
‘‘You’re not a native of these parts, or you 
would know that Hilda does not honor such 
gatherings with her presence.” 

“ How is that ?” said Beverly, with in- 
terest. 

“ She believes it wrong to dance, and, to 
be consistent, she does not attend where 
dancing is done.” 

“ Is that one of her wdiiins of which 
Colonel Harper spoke?” 

“Yes,” said Harry. “Hilda has some 
odd fancies, but she is a good girl.” 

“ I would like to hear her reasons,” said 
Beverly. 

“ She can give you plenty of them,” said 
Harry. “She will not stay late in any 
company : she says she cannot lose sleep and 
be fit for her duties ; and with her duty is 
everything.” 

“ That is a very old adage, ‘ Duty before 
pleasure,’ and I believe it is the general prac- 
tice of the masculine portion of the com- 
munity, but it is not usual to find the ladies 


174 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


carrying it out. It is understood to be their 
mission to supply the pleasure.” 

“ Hilda would tell you that the only true 
pleasure is in duty.” 

I must certainly have a talk with such a 
very philosophical young lady,” said Beverly. 

Edward took an early opportunity to carry 
out his purpose. He called at Mr. Buth- 
ven’s the day following the dance, and found 
Hilda disengaged. After the usual introduc- 
tory remarks lie plunged into his subject. 

‘^Miss Buthven,” he said, “I want to get 
your personal opinion on some matters. I 
was told at a party last night that you were 
not present because you disapprove of danc- 
ing.” 

“ That was quite true,” said Hilda. 

‘‘Would you behind enough to give me 
your reasons?” 

“ Certainly,” she said. “ Of course you 
are a Christian, Mr. Beverly ?” 

“ I hope so,” he said. 

“ Then we start on common ground. You 
believe, then, that our first duty is to present 
ourselves, soul and body, a living sacrifice 
to God?” 


WHIMS. 


175 


I suppose so, but I have never studied 
theology, Miss Ruthven.” 

‘‘ Well, that truth lies pretty near the sur- 
face of the gospel, Mr. Beverly ; it can hard- 
ly escape the notice of an inquirer after 
truth. How, then, are we to do this? It 
seems to me that is the first great question 
a Christian has to solve. The second, of 
course, is to carry it out in practice. How 
are we to present our bodies 

‘‘ I fear you will find me very superficial,” 
he said, but I should think the first way is 
to profess our faith before men.” 

‘‘Yes,” said Hilda, “that is true; but 
one’s profession may be very hollow. We 
must devote ourselves, soul and body, to the 
service of Christ. That must be the whole 
aim of the Christian’s life. If we have 
talents, we must use them for him ; if we 
have wealth, we must spend it for him. Our 
time, too, must not be wasted ; it must be 
‘ redeemed.’ We have no right to squander 
it, any more than an agent has the right to 
take the money of his employer and spend 
it for the gratification of his own desires. 
Am I right ?” 


176 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


‘‘I cannot deny your conclusions, Miss 
E-utliven. And then — ” 

And then, clearly we have no right to 
spend our time in any way that does not 
effect that great object of our life. That is 
my theory, Mr. Beverly,” she said ; I am 
very far from practicing it as I should.” 

The young man sat silent for a little while, 
and then said, 

‘‘ Now, Miss Buthven, will you please tell 
me your application of this great principle 
in the matter of dancing ?” 

Let us look first at this phase of it, Mr. 
Beverly. Is it right that a Christian should 
spend hours — whole nights — year aftei- year, 
in doing — What ? Simply skipping about 
to the sound of music. Is it rational exer- 
cise ? Does any good come of it ? Is it a 
profitable way for a Christian to spend his 
time?” 

“ Miss Buthven, it is perfectly natural for 
us to feel a desire to keep time to music. 
You see a little child, when it hears a lively 
tune played, has an immediate desire to 
dance to it.” 

“ I know that, and I like to see a company 


WHIMS. 


177 


of children dance about ; but what is suitable 
for children doesn’t always do for grown-ups. 
That is a different thing from spending time 
and money in learning new steps, and then, 
as I said, giving a great portion of time to 
it afterward. Nothing is more natural to 
little boys than to play ‘ stick-horses,’ yet I 
shouldn’t think it just the thing for a party 
of young gentlemen to spend evening after 
evening capering round on their canes.” 

Edward laughed heartily at the ridiculous 
picture conjured up. 

“ Natural tendencies are not a very good 
guide, Mr. Beverly.” 

‘‘ No,” he said. ‘‘ I believe I shall never 
be able to dance again without thinking of 
that absurd conceit of yours ; I shall mortal- 
ly offend the young ladies by laughing in 
their faces.” 

‘‘That is only the useless phase of the 
matter,” continued Hilda. “ But, though 
that would be quite enough to condemn it 
as an exercise suitable for Christians, there 
is much worse. It injures our bodies, which 
we have no right to abuse, and, above all, it 
corruj)ts the soul.” 

12 


178 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


‘‘ You have brought a terrible charge, 
Miss Ruthven,” said Edward, ‘‘ against one 
of the favorite amusements of the world.” 

‘‘ That is just what it is,” she said : it is 
wholly worldly. What are the favorite 
amusements in what are called the higher 
circles? Music and conversation on enno- 
bling subjects ? No. Dancing and card-games 
— both powerful agencies in the hand of the 
evil one for the corruption of youth.” 

‘‘ Well, Miss Duthven,” said Beverly, 
your brother-in-law gave me a vague hint 
that you are a disbeliever in theatre-going 
too.” 

“ I certainly am,” she said, emphatically. 
‘‘I went once, and only once. The play 
was one of the most popular — one of the 
kind that I hear people say draw the larg- 
est audiences. I can say only that I wish 
I could blot from my memory the sights and 
sounds of that night. But I can’t ; they 
come back like a bad dream. Don’t talk to 
me about it, please, Mr. Beverly ; no induce- 
ment could prevail on me to go. I shudder 
to think that I might become indifferent to 
such things. I don’t believe there could be 


WHIMS. 


179 


a more horrible punishment than that one’s 
moral sense should become so deadened as to 
enjoy theatre-going. You will think me a 
ranter,” she said, more lightly. ‘‘I would 
not have inflicted this on you of my own 
accord ; you brought it on yourself, you re- 
member.” 

“ Don’t apologize,” said Mr. Beverly ; 
‘‘ you have given me some wholesome food 
for meditation. To tell the truth, I had 
heard some whispers, and I thought it best 
to hear your own version.” 

Thank you,” she said. It is not every- 
body that takes that trouble, and so there are 
some curious rumors afloat.” 

Mr. Beverly soon after took his leave, and 
that evening he said to his host, 

I do not advise any one who wants to 
dance or to attend the theatre to talk with your 
sister-in-law; she will demolish all his de- 
fences.” 

“ Oh !” said Colonel Harper. ‘‘ Have you 
had the benefit of her views ?” 

“ I have had the benefit,” he said ; you 
express it exactly.” 

‘‘ Do you feel pretty well used up ?” 


180 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


“ Did you ever talk to her yourself, Har- 
per, on the subject?” 

No, I didn’t,” confessed the colonel. I 
have understood ever since I entered the 
connection that she had her idiosyncrasies, 
but I saw that it annoyed Rosalie to notice 
it; so I just took it for granted, and kept 
quiet. She has always been a great friend 
of Philip St. John’s sister, and I sometimes 
think that has intensified her peculiarities.” 

Who is this St. John ?” said Mr. Beverly. 
‘‘ I have heard a great deal about him since 
I came here. He is a sort of Communist, is 
he not?” 

Well, not exactly, unless you call giving 
away his own. Communism. Communists 
generally content themselves with insisting 
on others giving away their property. It’s 
a curious thing that you never heard the 
story. He and Cora — Lady Trent — were 
engaged for a long time, till he got those 
foolish notions in his head ; she threw him 
over because he insisted on carrying them 
out. It was just about a year later that she 
married Sir Ralph Trent. I don’t know 
that she has been much happier than she 


WHIMS. 


181 


would have been with St. John. She doesn’t 
look as if life had been all sunshine to her.” 

A sudden suspicion flashed across Mr. 
Beverly’s brain. 

“ Is Miss Buthven acquainted with this 
Mr. St. John?” he asked. 

‘‘ No, I think not. She was quite young 
at the time we were married. She was only 
a child when Cora was engaged ; then St. 
John was traveling for two years, and soon 
after he came home the match was broken 
ofi*.” 

I think I should like to know something 
more of St. John and the practical working 
of his schemes.” 

‘‘ I have no doubt he will receive you very 
kindly ; I can give you his address when 
you wish to go. The fact is, he has fallen 
out of our set, and I have not seen him for 
years.” 


CHAPTER XX. 

THE WORKERS AT HOME. 

G race JOHXSON was not dead, as we 
know. She was busily engaged in giv- 
ing to Justina all the particulars of life at 
Madam Nettleby’s. Justina took them 
down and communicated them to Philip. 

‘‘ Philip,” she said, suppose these poor 
creatures do ask for higher wages. They 
will not get it ; they will lose their places, and 
there are thousands of others, colder, ragged- 
er, hungrier, more miserable than they, ready 
to slip into them. It seems so hopeless !” 

“ I shall take care to have all these things 
published far and wide ; Mark’s reputation 
is his weak point, you know. Should that 
fail,” he said, with a determined air, “ I shall 
try competition ; that, I fancy, will be to 
Mark an unanswerable argument.” 

We have not space for a recital of all 
182 


THE WORKERS AT HOME. 


183 


that saddened Philip St. John’s heart and 
caused his blood to boil as he continued his 

investigations. ‘‘78 alley. Cellar,” 

he read from his list. This part of his work 
was of necessity done at night in order to 
find the occupants of the rooms at home. 

St. John and his companion — a police- 
officer — went down the dark, dirty steps ; 
there was no light in the room but that given 
by a candle-end almost burnt out. A rack- 
ing cough smote on St. John’s ear. 

“ Sure, an’ who’s that ?” called Mrs. Denis, 
“ cornin’ in like a tliafe ?” 

“We are friends,” said St. John; “don’t 
be alarmed.” 

“ How many are there of you in this 
room?” asked his companion. 

“Tin of us, sorr,” said the woman, “an’ 
elivin, wid this gurl. There’s Mike an’ me 
an’ eight o’ the childer. An’ we brought 
her here for the hate ; she was dyin’ o’ the 
cold.” 

“ At what does your husband work ?” went 
on the man, directing his questions to the 
woman ; for “ Mike ” was sound asleep. 

“He works in the docks, sorr, whin he 


184 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


can git work, but there’s often he can’t ; the 
world’s full o’ the likes o’ him.” 

“ What do you do ?” 

‘‘ I sews, sorr, at Madam Nettleby’s.” 

‘‘What are your wages ?” 

“ I sews hooks an’ eyes on jerseys, an’ I 
gits five cents apiece.” 

“ About how many can you do in a day ?” 

“ Half a dozen ginerally, sorr, but these 
dark days I can’t work fast, an’ so it’s less.” 

“ Eight children, did you say ? How old 
is the eldest?” 

“ Fifteen, sorr, an’ she works in the match- 
factory.” 

“ And the others ?” he asked. 

“ Well, there’s Ellen ; she’s between thir- 
teen an’ fourteen. She carries the work 
from the fitters to the machines.” 

“ What wages does she get ?” 

“ Fifty cents a week, sorr, an’ two cents a 
day off for lunch, an’ sometimes there’s fines 
if she’s slow in cornin’ when she’s called or 
forgits an’ talks : ye know childer will be 
talkin’.” 

“ But suppose she doesn’t want any lunch ?” 
said St. John. 


THE WORKERS AT HOME. 


185 


“ It’s all the same, sorr ; it’s counted to her, 
any way.” 

“ What are the fines ?” 

“ Five cents is the lowest. Some is fined 
tin for swearin’, but Ellen isn’t one o’ that 
kind. I often thinks if the overlookers was 
fined for swearin’ they’d have a good pile o’ 
money.” 

“ Well, about the rest of the children ?” 

‘‘ There’s Andy, but he’s got a bad leg ; he 
can’t do nothin’. Mag, she minds the baby, 
an’ Pete an’ Joe an’ Gassy, they just run 
about the streets.” 

“ Do they not go to school ?” 

The woman gave a short laugh : 

‘‘ What would sich as them do in school ? 
Schools ain’t for sich as them ; they’ve got 
no clothes.” 

‘‘ And this young woman ?” said St. John. 

Many times the foregoing conversation had 
been interrupted by the hollow cough and the 
stifled moan. 

I tould ye, sorr, I brought her home wi’ 
me out o’ the cowld. It’s not a good place, 
but it’s better nor she had.” 

‘‘ At what does she work ?” 


186 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


“ She’s in the sewin’-room ; I mane at the 
mash an e.” 

‘‘ What is her name ?” 

‘‘ She’s called Bessie, but indade I niver 
axed her other name. — What is it, darlin’ ?” 
she asked, turning to Bessie, who had been 
given the warmest place among the shavings, 
and lay protected by Kathleen and Ellen on 
either side from the wind. 

Bessie By an,” said the feeble voice. 

‘‘ How is it that you work together and do 
not know each other’s name ?” 

‘‘We don’t have any names there,” said 
the woman, “only numbers. I’m Nine.” 

“ How do you manage to live at all ?” said 
St. John. 

“We’re better off than plenty,” said the 
woman. “ Mike is stiddy, an’ that’s a rare 
thing. There was a poor cratur dropped 
dead in the room the day. She tould some 
o’ them before that she had five childer ; be- 
likes they’re out in the cowld the night. I’ll 
try not to complain as long as Mike’s stiddy 
an’ we’re all thegither.” 

“ Now,” said Philip, turning to Bessie 
again, “ how long have you had this cough ?” 


THE WORKERS AT HOME. 


187 


“ Ever since winter begun. My side pains 
me so !” 

And you sew all day long 

‘‘Yes.’’ 

“ An’ wliat’s more, sorr, she doesn’t eat a 
bit.” 

“ I can’t,” said the girl ; “ the sight of the 
food makes me sick.” 

St. John put his hand in his pocket and 
drew out an orange.” 

“ Could you eat that ?” he said, holding it 
up. ^ 

“ Oh, sir, you are so kind !” said the poor 
girl as he put it into her hand. — “ Cut it 
and take the half of it,” she said to Mrs. 
Denis. 

“ Indade, an’ not a morsel of it shall pass 
anybody’s lips but yer own,” said the warm- 
hearted woman. 

“ I am making an effort,” said St. John, 
“ to get better wages and better homes for 
you. I want you all to be ready to sign a 
paper which I will have ready in a few days, 
asking for an increase of wages.” 

The woman eyed him suspiciously. 

“ Is it belongin’ to the union ye are ?” she 


188 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


said. “We don’t want to strike, sorr; they 
can soon starve us out.” 

“ No ; it is no union,” said St. John ; “ but 
if you will do as I tell you, you will get bet- 
ter wages. I myself will see that you have 
better lodgings.” 

The inquirers went on their way. 

“That girl is a case for a hospital,” said 
St. John, when they had regained the street; 
“ I shall send in the morning and have her 
brought away. Did you ever see a brighter 
existence of unselfishness and cheerfulness 
than that woman’s ? Her plain face looked 
really beautiful to me as we came away.” 

The next place visited was a boarding-house 
kept by Bridget Murphy. Entering the outer 
door, a bar-room was the first stopping-place. 
The fumes of liquor and tobacco filled the 
air, and men in all stages of intoxication 
were scattered about. Going up the dark 
and filthy staircase, the uniform of St. 
John’s companion gained them speedy en- 
trance. We have time only to glance at a 
tithe of the wretched inhabitants huddled 
together in quarters unfit to be used by hu- 
man beings. 


THE WORKERS AT HOME. 


189 


‘‘ Who stays in this room inquired the 
officer, pausing before the door of an ill- 
smelling den apparently empty. 

St. John and the policeman looked in. The 
room contained a large bedstead comfortably 
furnished, and a passable supply of clothing 
hung on nails driven in the wall. Pasted 
on the wall itself were gaudy, unpleasant 
pictures. An untidy, miserable-looking girl 
who had come to the door of another room 
answered Philip’s question in a voice made 
nasal by the cold contracted by tramping 
through the winter’s slush in the old sodden 
shoes which we saw at Madam Nettleby’s. 

Them girls isn’t in ; they never is nights 
till near mornin.’ Don’t ask me where they 
are,” she went on. “ There don’t none of us 
have anything to do with them girls. If we 
are in the dirt, we try to be decent.” 

What is your name ?” said St. John, turn- 
ing to her. 

Deb Allen,” she said, in her nasal voice. 

If you keer to see our room — mine an’ 
S’line’s — you’re welcome;” and she stood 
out of the doorwa}^ to let them pass. 

The room was barely large enough for the 


190 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


old straw bed thrown on the floor ; the cover- 
ing looked as if it had long ago forgotten its 
last wash. S’line ’’ sat on an old box, the 
only seat the room contained. A few tat- 
tered garments hung on nails. 

Have you no bedding but this 

‘‘We piles all our clothes over us when 
we goes to bed,” said Deb. 

“ How long have you been in this room ?” 

“ Two year now. What’s the use o’ chang- 
in’ ? We don’t get no better.” 

The other girl sewed away, taking no 
notice of the visitors. 

“ What is your name ?” asked St. John, 
turning to her. 

“ S’line Crane.” 

“ ‘ S’line ’ ?” he repeated, in a puzzled 
voice. “ What is that short for ?” 

“ ’Tisn’t short for nothin’. Hit’s hall the 
name h’I’v.e got.” 

“ But there must be something more to it. 
Can you spell it ?” 

The girl gave a short laugh. 

“ Never tried to. Wat ud be the good o’ 
that?” 

“Did you never go to school ?” 


THE WOBKEBS AT HOME. 


191 


“ Waf s the use ? They don’t teach sewin’ ; 
spellin’ don’t put bread in our mouths.” 

“Selina! Is that it?” said St. John, who 
was still wrestling with the girl’s name. 

“ S’pose so,” she said, laconically. 

“ Why do you wear such shoes ?” he asked 
Deb, noticing the condition of the pair she 
had on. 

“ They’re all I’ve got. I did think I’d 
get a pair, but it’s been all I could do to get 
bread to put in my mouth. I don’t get 
asleep till near morning, and then I’m late, 
and I’m fined. Every day this week I’ve 
been fined.” 

“ What do they fine you for being late ?” 

“ Ten cents. H’l don’t see,” said Selina, 
laying down her sewing now, “ wat’s the use 
o’ try in’ to live, any way. We ain’t any 
business to live at all.” 

“ Then how’d the grand folks get their 
sewin’ done ?” said Deb. 

Having taken note of all that was in the 
room, the visitors turned to go up stairs. 
They paused in the attic ; the door was shut, 
and they knocked. It was opened by the 
girl called Kate. 


192 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


‘‘ What do you want?” she asked, sharply. 
‘‘We have done nothing to bring us a visit 
from you.” 

St. John saw that this was a girl much 
superior to those whom they had met down 
stairs. 

“We do not wish to disturb you,” he said, 
respectfully. “We are trying to gather some 
information about those who are employed to 
sew for Madam Nettleby. How many of 
you are in this room ?” 

“ Two, sir,” said Kate ; “ Bessie Ryan left 
us because it was too cold.” 

“ Do you not have fire at all ?” 

“ ‘ Fire ’ !” she said, in astonishment. 
“How could we have fire and food and 
clothing on our wages? I make shirts at 
eighty cents a dozen ; how much can I earn 
a week at that ?” 

“ What is your name ?” 

“ Kate Hill.” 

“ Kate,” said the second girl, coming for- 
ward now, “ maybe it will get us into trou- 
ble.” 

“ ‘Trouble ’ !” said Kate, scornfully. “ IM 
like to know what worse trouble we could be 


THE WOBKERS AT HOME. 


193 


in, unless we came to what those girls down 
stairs are, or Pauline ; that would be worse. 
The only way to live better than we do is to 
be like them. Did you see their room 

“ We looked in ; they were out.” 

‘‘Well, you saw how comfortable they are, 
compared with us.” 

“Will you give me your name?” said St. 
John, to the second girl. “ I assure you no 
harm will come of it. I want to try and get 
a better place than this for you all, where 
you can live and thrive.” 

“ If you are sure, sir — ” she said, doubt- 
fully ; then, as though making up her mind 
to a plunge into cold water, “Jane Lawson, 
sir.” 

“ Sir,” said Kate, “ I know you are a good 
man. If you can do anything for poor girls 
like us, I beg of you to do it. There was a 
girl who worked with us, and she is missing 
now. She threatened to throw herself into 
the river to keep from coming to what those 
girls down stairs are. She was an honest 
girl and trying to do right, and there are 
hundreds of others like her. They get to 
be what they are just to get the means to 

13 


194 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


keep soul and body together, and then the 
fine ladies that wear what they stitch their 
very lives into gather their skirts together 
when they pass them, and lift their heads 
high in scorn of them. They go to their 
grand parties, and dance and promenade 
with the scoundrels that ruin these poor girls. 
Oh, sir, it’s awful !” 

“ Awful indeed ! You lift the lid off the 
very pit itself. But with God’s help we 
shall save some of them yet. I think, too, 
that you are mistaken about your friend. 
Do you mind telling me what her name is ?” 

Grace Johnson. Oh, sir, do you know 
anything about her?” 

She is safe with my sister,” said Philip. 

It was through her that we learned of the 
need among you all.” 

Oh, I’m so glad !” said Kate, clasping 
her hands. ‘‘We were brought up to- 
gether.” 

“ I must bid you good-night now. If you 
will all stand by me and speak out when I 
ask you, this will all be changed. — Only one 
more place to-night,” said St. John, wearily. 
“ I am glad, for this wears out not only 


THE WORKERS AT HOME. 


195 


body, but soul. What is the name on your 
list?’’ 

Pauline,” said his companion ; ‘‘ no one 
could give me any other name.” 

The streets grew narrower and more 
malodorous till the two paused before the 
door of a lodging-house more unwholesome 
than any they had yet seen. There, in the 
midst of a crowd of noisy men and women 
drinking, disputing and swearing, stood the 
weird-faced woman whom we have before 
seen at Madam Nettleby’s. 

The officer and Philip stood by the door 
watching the scene. 

Where is she, Pauline ?” one of the 
women was saying. 

Bring her out,” said a bloated, blear- 
eyed man, and let her learn to drink with 
the rest. Hagan won’t care for you bringin’ 
any one here that doesn’t drink.” 

“ I’ll bring her myself,” said a virago, 
striding toward a small door in the parti- 
tion. 

Don’t you dare to lay a finger on her !” 
said Pauline, fiercely, catching the woman by 
the arm. 


196 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


Just then the officer stepped up and laid 
his hand on Pauline’s shoulder. 

“Pauline!” he said. 

“ You come at a good time, sir,” she said. 
“I have a poor innocent child here, and 
nothing will do these fiends but they must 
make her like themselves. I’ll give her to 
you and let you take her or send her back 
to her friends ; and tell them to keep her.” 

“Very well, Pauline,” said the policeman 
as if soothing a fractious child ; “ but we 
want to speak to you. Can’t we do it any 
place but here?” 

“ Come in,” she said ; “ I took this little 
box to-night for the child.” 

Pauline- opened the door, and there, 
crouching in the farthest corner of the 
room, her eyes dilated with fear, was Car- 
rie Lowman. She gave a smothered cry of 
terror as the door opened. Pauline went 
to her ; her whole face softened as she bent 
over her: 

“Were you afraid? You needn’t have 
been ; they shouldn’t have had you if I had 
died to prevent them.” 

“ Oh, please, please, Pauline, take me 


THE WORKERS AT HOME. 


197 


away I Let us get out of this ; it is horri- 
ble. I never was in such a place as this.’’ 

“ No, Carrie ; I’ll not go, but I’m going 
to give you to these gentlemen, to send you 
home to your mother.” 

Carrie clasped her hands in mute thank- 
fulness and raised her tear-stained face to 
the strangers. They went on to explain to 
Pauline what it was that was required of 
her, and then, at her request, they took poor 
Carrie out with them ; and that night Grace 
Johnson’s little room had another occupant. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

A CLUB DINNER. 

P HILIP’S petition was duly put into cir- 
culation, and with the result expected by 
those who signed it — a refusal to accede to 
their request for higher wages and a threat 
to dismiss them if they persisted in their de- 
mands. Grace Johnson, who was Philip’s 
agent among these women and went to them 
after work-hours, counseled them to say no 
more, but to leave the finishing of the busi- 
ness to Mr. St. John. 

Shortly afterward there appeared in all 
the leading papers an article giving the re- 
sult of Philip’s investigations, both as to the 
prices paid for work and as to the straits to 
which the poor creatures engaged in it were 
reduced. The petition itself, with the names 
of the signers appended, was published, and 
the article closed with these words : “ This 
appeal to Madam Nettleby having been in- 

198 


A CLUB DINNER. 


199 


eflPectual, the next step will be to carry the 
case to her employer, who, being one of our 
most prominent business-men and an elder 
in one of our largest churches, will doubtless 
find means to induce Madam N. to accede to 
the very reasonable demands of these over- 
worked and half-starved sisters.” 

Richard Esterbrook chuckled as he read 
this article at his late breakfast. 

‘‘ Phil is as wise as a serpent, for all his 
meekness,” he said to his wife ; ‘‘ he knows 
that will bring Mark round. He will gnash 
his teeth in private, but he can’t afibrd to 
have men point at him and say, ‘ That’s For- 
tescue, the fellow that screws his hands so.’ 
He don’t mind the fact — not a bit of it — but 
to have it known.” 

“ Suppose he should choose his gain even 
before his reputation,” said Frances, doubt- 
fully. ‘‘ Then what good would Philip have 
accomplished by all this fuss he has made ? 
The girls would be worse off than they were 
before, for they would have nothing.” 

They come pretty near having nothing 
as it is,” said her husband. “ But Phil will 
never surrender. He told me that if he 


200 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


failed in this he would open an establishment 
himself; and Fortescue wouldn’t have the 
ghost of a chance if Phil ran opposition.” 

‘‘ Well,” said Frances, fretfully, “ I don’t 
see the use of it. It’s only a drop in the 
bucket, after all. Think how many places 
there are in this city just like it, and then 
multiply them by the number of cities in 
the world, and what comes of the little that 
Philip can do?” 

‘‘ Yes,” said Pichard, ‘‘ I don’t see why 
you were giving Cecilia such a flattening out 
this morning for not dusting. Think how 
many dusty, dirty houses there are in this 
city, and then think how many cities there 
are in the world. It’s appalling! What’s 
the use of trying to keep one house clear of 
dust? It makes so little difference on the 
grimy whole.” 

‘‘ But, Eichard, what pleasure, either bod- 
ily or mental, can he find in poking into 
such sinkholes? It’s enough to give one 
mental dyspepsia. He only wears himself 
out, and will drag himself into the grave 
without ever having known what pleasure 
there is in life.” 


A CLUB DINNER. 


201 


“Well, I think he’ll rest full as well in 
his grave as either you or me, and perhaps 
the pleasure he’ll find in the other world 
will make up to him for what he has lost in 
this.” 

“ The whole thing is absurd,” said Frances, 
pushing back her plate. “ God never meant 
everybody to be well ofi*. There’s got to be 
some trouble in the world.” 

“ Exactly, and Phil wants to have his 
share of it. You and I don’t, so we hide 
our heads and say, ‘ I’m perfectly comfort- 
able. I don’t see any person very bad off.’ 
Don’t worry if St. John lessens the trouble 
a little. According to your statement, there 
will still be plenty left to make everybody 
as miserable as you think God meant him to 
be.” 

“ It’s shocking, the irreverent way you 
talk,” she said, rising. “ It chafes me every 
time I think of the place Philip might have 
held in society, with his own house — an es- 
tablishment suited to his means — his accom- 
plished wife — ” 

“You wouldn’t — you surely wouldn’t — 
wish to darken that baronial establishment 


202 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


at Underwood Hall by snatching away its 
‘ bright particular star ’ ?” interrupted Eichard, 
sarcastically. 

Mrs. Esterbrook did not deign to notice 
her husband’s raillery: 

‘‘ Justina too might have been in her prop- 
er place ; but no. They must stick them- 
selves away in a miserable out-of-the-way 
place fit only for a mechanic. And then we 
have to answer all sorts of questions. Every- 
where I go I hear whispers of this new piece 
of folly and that, and among new acquaint- 
ances, asides of ‘ That’s his sister,’ ‘ Oh, not 
at all like him, I assure you,’ till I’m sick 
of it.” 

You ought to be satisfied. Either way 
you look at it, you can extract a compliment 
out of it. If they mean it as a compliment 
that you are St. John’s sister, take that out 
of it ; if they don’t, then you have the con- 
solation that you are not a bit like him. My 
dear woman,” said Mr. Esterbrook, speaking 
seriously now, “ don’t you ever fret if you 
have no greater disgrace than to be known 
as Philip’s sister. As for happiness, I be- 
lieve Justina is a happier woman than you. 


A CLUB DINNER. 


203 


IVe seen her pretty often, and I never yet 
found her moping or fretting.” 

“ Thank you !” said Frances, turning full 
upon him with flashing eyes. You are 
very kind, to give me such a plain intimation 
of your opinion of me. If I ^ mope and 
fret,’ I don’t do it without a cause. Yes, I 
am an unhappy woman, and you know who 
is to blame for that.” 

Mrs. Esterbrook turned and walked out 
of the room, banging the door after her. 

‘‘Frances,” began Richard before she had 
reached the door, “ I declare I had no in- 
tention of hurting your feelings ; I was not 
finding fault with you at all.” 

But the latter part of the sentence fell 
on empty air. 

“ Now, I am an unlucky fellow,” he said, 
in perplexity. “ Wherever we start from, 
vre always land at the same place. I know 
I’m a careless, good-for-nothing individual, 
but she’s mistaken in one thing, and I don’t 
know how to convince her of it. I’ll go up 
stairs and endeavor to see if I can bring her 
to reason.” 

Richard went to his wife’s door and 


204 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


knocked; no answer. He turned the han- 
dle. 

‘‘Locked out!’’ he muttered. “Well, I 
may as well go and find my comfort where I 
can ; there don’t seem to be much in this 
house. I wish Philip St. John would bring 
some of his reformatory agencies to bear 
around here. Heaven knows there’s as 
much misery here as in any of the hovels 
he goes into and Richard Esterbrook 
strode down the street with a sharp pain 
clutching at his heartstrings. 

“Well, here is St.John’s latest vagary,” 
said Mr. Ruthven at the club one evening 
some days later than the above occurrence. 

Mr. Beverly, after completing his visit at 
Colonel Harper’s, had taken rooms at the 
Astor House, and on invitation had gone to 
this club dinner. 

“ What is it ?” asked Mr. Beverly, with 
interest, as Mr. Ruthven laid down the pa- 
per. 

“ He is building two steamers for the At- 
lantic service.” 

“ But I thought,” said Mr. Beverly, “ that 


A CLUB DINNER. 


205 


he engaged only in philanthropic schemes. 
I do not see how this latest movement can be 
of that character.^’ 

‘‘ That’s because you don’t know St. 
John,” said another. 

‘‘ These steamers,” said Mr. Ruthven, are 
built specially to accommodate that class of 
passengers who disapprove of card-playing, 
drinking, smoking and profanity. This has 
been a hobby of Philip’s for years.” 

“ But it will never pay.” 

St. John doesn’t work for pay,” said Bich- 
ard Esterbrook. ‘‘ He is a century or two in 
advance of the rest of the world ; that is all 
that’s the matter with him.” 

I certainly hope the world will never 
reach such a pitch of fanaticism as St. John 
has attained tp,” said Mark Fortescue, testily. 

“ He is your brother-in-law, is he not ?” 
said Mr. Beverly. 

I’m sorry to say he is,” was the answer. 
“ His interference has cost me a pretty sum.” 

“In what way?” said Mr. Beverly, with 
great interest. 

“ I have to pay just double the amount of 
wages to my forewoman that I used to do. 


206 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


St. John must needs come poking about 
among the workwomen and take up their 
fancied grievances. It went so far that my 
forewoman told me she would be compelled 
to resign if I did not raise her wages, for all 
her operatives would leave if she did not pay 
them more. I should have let them go and 
have filled up with others, only I knew it was 
no use. St. John would have followed up the 
matter, and as fast as I could have gotten new 
hands he would have stampeded them. He 
has money enough to ruin us all.’’ 

But how does it come his money doesn’t 
run out?” said Mr. Beverly. 

“ Why doesn’t the water run out of the 
sea ?” said Mr. Buthven. He inherited an 
immense fortune from his father, and money 
is coming in all the time. He keeps it cir- 
culating. I will say this for St. John : he 
has a splendid head for business, whatever 
one may think of his manner of spending.” 

I am exceedingly interested in all that I 
hear of this young man,” said Mr. Beverly. 

‘‘Don’t you go near him,” said Bichard 
Esterbrook, “ if you don’t want to be miser- 
able ever after.” 


A CLUB DINNER. 


207 


Mr. Beverly turned to the speaker. 

“You know him, do you?’’ he asked, in a 
low tone. 

“Yes; I too am his brother-in-law, but, 
unlike Fortescue, I’m not sorry.” 

“ You do not join, then, in the general 
condemnation which is meted out to him ?” 
said Beverly. 

“ I do not,” said the other, warmly. 
“ Philip is too good for us all, and that is 
the truth. Fortescue is soured because he 
exposed the shameful prices that were being 
paid for work done for his establishment. 
Now, I’m sure Phil has talked as hard to me 
as to any one, and I never get out of temper.” 

“ What is your business, if I may ask ?” 
inquired Mr. Beverly. 

“ Bailroading,” said Esterbrook. “ Now, I 
don’t think that we grind our men in the mat- 
ter of wages as men in some other lines of bus- 
iness do, but we do shamefully overwork them. 
This Sabbath work is all wrong. Some time 
ago there was a big smash-up down in Penn- 
sylvania; a poor fellow ran his train right 
into a freight, knocked things all to pieces 
and killed himself, a fireman and eighteen 


208 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


passengers. I went down and searched into 
the matter, and I^m quite certain it was work- 
ing seven days in the week that caused it. 
I’ve never been able to get the sight of that 
poor woman — his wife — out of my mind.” 

You feel sure, then, that this Sabbath 
work is wrong?” 

“ Of course it is. Let one of us try it and 
see how long he will stand it ?” 

Does it still go on in your company ?” 

“ Ah ! now you’re going to come Philip 
St. John’s ‘ Thou art the man ’ on me. But 
that is just what I will not admit. You see, 
a company isn’t a moral person, and this 
guilt — if you call it so— is divided up among 
so many that it doesn’t weigh very much on 
any individual conscience.” 

Mr. Beverly looked narrowly at the speak- 
er, but could not satisfy himself whether he 
were in jest or in earnest. 

“ I shall be much obliged if you will give 
me an introduction to this rare specimen of 
humanity,” he said. It will be a long step 
in our acquaintance.” 

‘‘I shall be most happy to do so,” said 
Ester brook. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

LADY TRENT’S EXPERIMENT. 

T he year had flown, and Dr. Heathcote 
and his family had sailed for their dis- 
tant home. The doctor’s search for an assist- 
ant had been successful. Alvaii Thornton 
was a thorough physician and a devoted 
Christian. His intercourse with the St. 
Johns had been very pleasant, and his going 
away made quite a blank in their circle. 
Maud had become like an actual member of 
the family, and her mother felt at rest leaving 
her in the care of Justina St. John. Things 
settled back pleasantly into their old routine, 
enlivened at times by letters from across the 
sea. 

At the Ruthven mansion there had been 
some changes. Harry, having developed the 
requisite qualifications, was going into busi- 
ness. 


14 


209 


210 


THILIP ST. JOHN. 


‘‘ Father,” he said, on that occasion, if I 
ever come to anything, you may thank Mr. 
St. John. You know you spoke pretty 
sharply to me a year or two ago about bet- 
ting at the races. Well, I went from bad to 
worse until Mr. St. John took me in hand. 
He has agents everywhere, you know, and 
as soon as he heard of my career he came to 
me himself. I can’t tell you all he said to 
me, but I’ve never forgotten it, and I’ve tried 
since to do right. I think you have found 
me different of late years, haven’t you?” 

‘‘Yes, you have been very steady. I am 
willing to give St. John due credit and thank 
him for it.” 

“ And to invite him to become a guest at 
our house as he used to be ?” asked Harry. 

Mr. Ruthven sat thinking for some little 
time, then said slowly, 

“ I think not. I do not know that he 
would care to become a guest, our ways of 
life are so different, and I do not know that 
he feels it any deprivation to stay away. 
Such things are unimportant to him, I 
fancy.” 

“Perhaps,” said Harry; “but, at all 


LADY TRENT’S EXPERIMENT. 


211 


events, you will understand that he is my 
friend/’ 

“ I shall not object to that at all.” 

Frank had some weeks before received an 
appointment as a naval cadet, and was doing 
well. 

While Mr. E-uthven and Harry talked on 
business matters, Corinna and her mother 
were discussing domestic affairs. 

“ Why, mamma,” said Corinna, you 
used to be quick enough in such matters. 
Don’t you see ? It’s plain enough. Three 
times now this week he has been here, and 
always asks for Hilda.” 

“ But you know, Cora, I have ceased to 
associate that kind of thing with Hilda, she 
is so matter of fact.” 

“ Well, Hilda is really a beauty, and she 
has a great deal of intellect. You must not 
expect young men to look at her with your 
eyes.” 

But she has never had a suitor, to my 
knowledge. At the first symptom of atten- 
tion she frightens them all away with her 
oddities.” 

“ W ell, she will not find Mr. Beverly so 


212 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


easily frightened/’ said Corinna ; “ he is des- 
perately in earnest. If I am not much mis- 
taken, he thinks enough of her to take her, 
eccentricities and all. Do you know what 
made him think of her first?” 

No ; do you ?” 

“ Yes. Rosalie told me that Mr. Beverly 
told Colonel Harper that what first attracted 
him to Hilda was her modest style of dress- 
ing at our wedding.” 

‘‘ Marvelous !” exclaimed Mrs. Ruthven. 

“ Yes,” said Corinna. Curious, wouldn’t 
it be, if the very dress which was such a bug- 
bear to us all should win you a son-in-law ?” 

You don’t mean to say he has been think- 
ing of her ever since .” 

“ So it seems, though till lately circum- 
stances have been against his keeping up the 
acquaintance. And I should advise you to 
insist on Hilda’s accepting his offer, for he is 
an excellent match. He has wealth, family 
and good character ” — Corinna prized these 
things in exactly the order in which she men- 
tioned them — and it is not every one who 
would pardon Hilda’s eccentricities.” 

‘‘ Well, that would at least be some com- 


LADY TRENT’S EXPERIMENT. 213 

pensation for the agonies I have suffered over 
Hilda’s dress, if it should have brought her 
a good husband and the good woman 
heaved a sigh of relief. 

Cora was quite right: sooner than either 
her mother or Hilda herself she had divined 
Edward Beverly’s secret. But then she had 
Bosalie’s confidence to quicken her percep- 
tions. 

Lady Trent was soon to go back to her 
lonely home, but it would be lonely no long- 
er when she got there. It was her intention 
to inaugurate a series of balls and entertain- 
ments which should compensate for her en- 
forced retirement from society. Just now 
she was possessed with an insane desire to see 
Philip St. John once more. She wanted to 
try if she had yet any power to stir his heart. 
After that? Well, she did not ask herself 
what. By shrewdly questioning Hildegarde 
as to his movements she was enabled to lay 
her plan. Going out alone one day, she 
went to a costumer’s and supplied herself with 
the dress of an Italian woman in poor cir- 
cumstances. In this she presented herself 
in Philip’s ofidce, and, addressing him in 


214 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


Italian, told him a pitiful story of destitution. 
He heard her compassionately, asked her 
name and address, which she gave him — 
both fictitious, of course — told her he would 
send his agent to relieve her, then bade her 
good-morning. She was chagrined that he 
failed to recognize her, though what credit 
it would have been to her had he done so she 
forgot to ask. 

“Well,’’ she said, “I will go in my own 
person and see him.” Why should she not ? 

Making a careful toilet the next day, Co- 
rinna followed closely on the heels of her 
card that she might see its effect on Philip, 
and entered his office the second time. 

Philip received her cordially. 

“ This is quite an unexpected meeting,” he 
said as he handed her a chair. 

“ I have been quite a time in this coun- 
try,” she said, “ and thought it a shame to 
go back to England without seeing an old 
friend who has made himself so famous.” 

“ I’m afraid I’m rather infamous just 
now,” remarked Philip, smiling. 

The interview was quite friendly, and Co- 
rinna went away with rage in her heart. 


LADY TRENT'S EXPERIMENT. 


215 


When she reached home, she locked her 
door and tore off her hat. 

“ Fool that I was,” she said, angrily, ‘‘ to 
fancy him pining for me and trying to fill 
the vacancy in his heart with deeds of char- 
ity ! And he has completely forgotten ! If 
he had been cold or haughty or had showed 
any resentment to-day ! but no ; he seemed 
to have no recollection of the past. He has 
not changed in appearance as I have; his 
work has kept him young. Well, why 
should I care? I made my own choice.” 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

DISAPPOINTMENT. 

H ILDEGARDE RUTHVEN had nev- 
er enjoyed her intercourse with any 
gentleman as she did that with Edward Bev- 
erly ; it was with sorrow that she realized 
that it must now come to an end. He was 
so earnest and so far removed from trifling 
that he had easily won her respect. 

“ But, Miss Ruth veil,’’ he said, ‘‘ you know 
we agree ; there is no difference in our opin- 
ions. Think what we might do together! 
You shall have my entire co-operation in 
carrying on all your good works ; I am en- 
tirely ready to join with you.” 

‘‘ Mr. Beverly,” said Hilda, ‘‘ I cannot tell 
you how sorry I am to give you pain. I can 
truly say that I never knew a young man 
for whom I had such a high regard, but 
there is one thing lacking, and I should do 
216 


DISAPPOINTMENT. 


217 


you a cruel wrong if I should accept your 
offer/’ 

I shall be quite content with such liking 
as you can give me, Miss Hilda,” he said, 
eagerly. 

“ No, you would not,” she said, gently. 

I have no right to give you less than my 
whole heart in return for what you so gen- 
erously offer me. It would be very wrong, 
Mr. Beverly.” 

“ Must I, then, give up this hope which 
has sweetened life for me lately ?” 

“ I am very, very sorry,” she said, hum- 
bly. It is best to end it at once.” 

Edward sat silent for some time, then rose 
and said in a husky voice, 

“ I must go away, then ; I cannot stay in 
New York any longer.” 

Hilda too was standing now. 

But, Mr. Beverly,” she said, in a trou- 
bled voice, ‘Hhis must not spoil your life. 
You will see so much to be done, and by 
and by you will find happiness in doing it. 
There are some hopes that can never be dis- 
appointed.” 

‘‘ You have made them very real to me,” 


218 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


he replied. Do not be afraid that I shall 
fall back into indifference; I shall work. 
Do not reproach yourself; you could not 
help being just what you are, and I — could 
not help loving you. Good-bye.” 

“ Is it to be ‘ good-bye ’ ?” she said, sadly. 

“ Yes, it must be ; I must go back to 
Boston now. I shall come to see you some 
time when we are both old.” 

Hilda could not answer ; she shook 
hands silently, then went to the window, 
where she could see Mr. Beverly as he went 
down the street. He turned as he left the 
steps, and looked up at the window. When 
he saw Hilda, a tremulous smile played 
about his lips; he raised his hat and was 
gone. 

Hilda dropped the curtain and fled to the 
refuge of her own room ; she knelt by the 
fire and sobbed bitterly. Poor Hilda! It 
was hard. Hitherto she had been so alone, 
even in her own family, and now this pleas- 
ant acquaintance must be dropped. 

Why could I not love him ? He always 
understood me. I liked him so much, but I 
did not love him, and that^s enough. How 


DISAPPOINTMENT. 


219 


I shall miss him ! This is my first experi- 
ence ; I hope it will be the last/’ 

In all this time every effort made by 
Philip and Justina to see Miss Arr had 
failed. 

‘‘ I declare,” said Justina, one evening, 
‘‘ I believe Miss Arr is a myth. She must 
be closely related to Sairey Gamp’s Miss 
Harris. Let us go together some day, 
Philip, and see if we can get a peep at her.” 

‘‘What if I should arrange my work so 
that I can go with you on Thursday ?” 

“Do! We shall send no notice of our 
coming.” 

Accordingly, at two o’clock on Thursday, 
when Hilda was in the midst of her duties, 
taking down the names of a party of Ger- 
man women and girls, Philip and Justina 
entered. Hilda’s back was to the door ; fol- 
lowing the gaze of the women, she turned 
and was face to face with them. An excla- 
mation of astonishment burst from Justina’s 
lips ; she was somewhat in advance of Philip. 
It must be remembered that Philip had never 
seen Hilda since his engagement with Cora 


220 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


had been broken, so that he did not recog- 
nize her. His only thought was, ‘‘ What a 
lovely woman Miss R. is Though there 
seemed something familiar about her, he could 
not define it. Judge of his astonishment at 
seeing her and Justina embrace each other 
with all the rapture of long-parted friends. 

‘‘Philip, Philip!’’ said Justina; “don’t 
you know her? It is Hildegarde.” 

Mr. St. John looked dazed. 

“ Hildegarde Ruthven !” he repeated. “ I 
thought — Miss R. — where is she ?” 

“ Here she is,” said J ustina. “ Don’t you 
see through it ? R. stands for Ruthven, does 
it not? and she has been masquerading all 
the time.” 

“ But,” he said, coming forward, “ is this 
really Hilda?” 

“ It is really Hilda,” she answered for her- 
self, with a low, musical laugh that he re- 
membered instantly. “ Will you not forgive 
me and shake hands ?” 

Philip smiled and took the hand offered 
to him. 

“ I recognize your voice,” he said, “ but I 
can hardly realize that this is the Hildegarde 


DISA PPOINTMENT. 


221 


I used to know. So you have been helping 
us in this good work all this time?” 

“ Yes,” she said, with a laughing nod to 
Mr. Field, who had come in. ‘‘ But I be- 
lieve Mr. Field did not expect me to stay 
longer than a few months ; he was not at all 
inclined to hire me.” 

“ Indeed, I did not expect you to stay 
months ; I thought days would be the limit. 
I thought you were only seized with a desire 
to play at charity, and would soon tire of your 
toil. But I was never more happily disap- 
pointed. — Bain or shine, summer and win- 
ter, for a whole year. Miss B.,” he said, with 
emphasis, “ has always been at her post.” 

“ And now,” said Hilda, she must go 
back to it. — Good people, now that you have 
found me out, will you not excuse me ? and 
1^11 come and see you at home. A party of 
immigrants is to start West to-night, and I 
am hoping that a number of these women 
will be ready to go along. Some have fathers 
and brothers in the men’s department, and 
we wish to send them all together.” 

“ We will go, then,” said Justina, but we 
shall expect you before long, Hilda. You 


222 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


have been very clever, but I am glad we 
have found you out at last and without 
ceremony the visitors took their leave, while 
Hilda returned to her w’ork. 

‘‘ Mr. St. John,’’ said Mr. Field, when they 
came out to the office again, I only hope we 
will not lose Miss Ruthven’s services by your 
finding out her secret. She was so anxious 
to remain unknown ! It is impossible for me 
to tell you all the good she has done. I don’t 
think she has sent away very many with 
whom she does not keep up a correspondence. 
Her Sabbath services are wonderful ; I have 
seen these poor women cry like children at 
her words. It does them so much good to 
meet some one who can speak to them in 
their own tongue !” 

‘‘ I do not think you need fear, Mr. Field,” 
said Justina; “I think she will keep on with 
her work as if nothing had happened.” 

“Justina,” said Philip, “I cannot tell you 
how glad I am that Hildegarde has devel- 
oped into such an earnest Christian worker.” 

“ I have always told you she was a good 
girl. I fear we shall not keep her always, 
but not for this reason. I hear rumors that 


DISAPPOINTMENT. 


223 


she is going to be carried off to Boston by 
young Mr. Beverly. I had it from Fran- 
ces.” 

I like him very much,” said Philip ; “ I 
hope he is good enough for her.” 

‘‘ I think he must be an excellent young 
man, for Frances tells me he is a man of like 
opinions with Hilda. The Buthvens are 
quite gratified, because they think Hilda is 
not likely to be sought by any of the fash- 
ionable young men here.” 

‘‘ Hilda,” said Mrs. Buthven that evening, 
when Hilda had come from her work, Mr. 
Beverly has gone back to Boston. Can you 
tell me why ?” 

“ Isn’t it about time, mamma?” said Hilda, 
turning to the piano and searching for her 
music. “ If he has any serious business in 
life, he has been away from it long enough.” 

“ Was he here?” 

Yes ; he called and left his ‘ Good-bye ’ 
for you.” 

I thought he seemed to have some seri- 
ous business here,” she continued. ^^Have 
you sent him away or is he coming back ?” 


224 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


she went on, relentlessly, as Hilda’s fingers 
wandered over the keys in a prelude. 

Mamma,” said Hilda, turning around 
and facing Mrs. Huthven, do not want 
Mr. Beverly made a subject of talk. It is 
much better for you to be able to say ‘ I do 
not know ’ when you are asked about him. I 
think Mr. Beverly is one of the most excellent 
young men of my acquaintance, and he is 
my very good friend ; but he has large inter- 
ests in Boston, and he wishes to attend to 
them in person.” 

Mrs. Buthven was silenced ; she never 
could understand her youngest daughter. 

Hilda played on softly, thinking, “ If 
mamma could have sympathized with either 
him or me, I might have told her. But I 
know I should only have to undergo a show- 
er of reproaches, and the story would soon be 
abroad. Nobody has any right to know his 
secret.” 

But by and by Hilda awoke to the fact 
that she missed Edward Beverly to turn the 
music, and missed his quiet appreciation of 
the music too. She got up and went across 
the room to her mother. 


BIS A PPOINTMENT. 


225 


“ Mamma,” she said, sadly, ‘‘ why are you 
anxious to get rid of me ?” 

No, no ! It is not that at all,” said her 
mother, hastily ; “ but Mr. Beverly was so 
suitable in every way ! It was such a good 
chance, and you know — ” She paused in 
some embarrassment. 

“ Oh, I know what you mean,” cried Hilda; 
“ you are afraid I will never have another 
offer. But, dear mamma, why shouldn’t I 
be happy at home without getting married 
at all?” 

“ But, my dear, girls all get married — that 
is, most of them — and you know you will 
grow old if you live, and you will want some 
one to take care of you.” 

‘‘ Well, if I’m left alone in the world,” 
said Hilda, ‘‘if Harry and Frank don’t want 
me in their families, I have money enough 
to hire some one to take care of me.”' 

But, for all that, Hilda knew that was not 
her ideal of happiness, and her heart was 
full of sadness. “ Shall I never be as happy 
again as I was before he disturbed me ?” she 
asked herself, wearily. 

16 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

A FATIIUB’S DUTY. 

T\0 not talk to me about a father^s duty 

-L' The tone was as stern as the words 
were harsh. It was Mark Fortescue who 
spoke, and the person whom he addressed 
was his wife. I have borne with the boy till 
it is unbearable; I can no longer be dis- 
graced with him. He may go and stay with 
his boon-companions. He shall not come 
under my roof.” 

“ Oh, Mark,” pleaded Mrs. Fortescue, 
‘‘ think how young he is, how inexperienced. 
What will he do out in the world ? Whose 
fault is it that he is unable to do anything ? 
If you had been firm with him, you might 
have made a man of him and the unhappy 
woman clasped her hands in despair. I 
will write to Philip,” she said, suddenly; 
‘‘perhaps he can find him and save him. 
Justina warned me long ago.” 


226 


J FATHFU’S DUTY. 


227 


In the energy of despair Mrs. Fortescue 
dashed off a note to Philip, and, late as it 
was, rang the hell and despatched a footman 
with orders to take it directly and deliver it 
to Mr. St. John. 

‘ Oh, Philip, dear Philip,’ ” read Justina, 
an hour later, ‘‘ ‘ if you love me, help me. 
My poor boy is wandering in the streets, 
and my heart is breaking. Poor Geoffrey ! 
You know he has always been weak and 
delicate. Whenever he took a little wine it 
flew to his head, and it has several times been 
too much for him and he has been brought 
home intoxicated. He has had debts, too, 
but not more than plenty of other boys have, 
and Mark is very angry. Find him for me, 
Philip dear ; I have only you to turn to. 

‘‘ ‘ Your sister, 

‘ Bakbaka.’ ” 

‘‘Write at once, Justina,” said Philip, 
rising, “ and tell her I have gone.” 

“Dear Barbara,” wrote Justina, “Philip 
has gone already ; we will let you know 
immediately when Geoffrey is found. Dear 


228 


PHILIP SP JOHN. 


Barbara, fly to God to comfort you now; 
none but he can help you. 

“ Your loving sister, 

JuSTIIfA.” 

Justina gave the note to Barbara’s foot- 
man, who returned directly. 

Justina felt what a dreadful blow this must 
be to her proud, worldly sister. What com- 
fort could there be for her ? Her son a sot 
in his very youth ! And what of the weak, 
wicked boy himself? Stupefied at the time 
his father denied him entrance, he fulfilled 
literally the words of Scripture : I will seek 
it yet again.” He was sane enough to find 
his way to his favorite haunt, where a num- 
ber of his wild companions were carousing. 
His maudlin wrath against his father called 
forth roars of laughter, and at last aroused 
his anger to such a degree that he struck 
madly to right and left at his tormentors. 

The gentlemanly proprietor hastened in 
to expostulate. 

It was Fortescue,” they all cried. “ He 
has had enough ; turn him out !” 

In obedience to this demand, Geoffrey, 


A FATJIBE’S DUTY. 


229 


with about as much command of his limbs 
as a child beginning to walk would have, 
was escorted to the door, and it closed on 
him. He wandered about, quite unconscious 
of where he was going or what he was do- 
ing, until his foot struck the curbstone and 
he fell into the gutter. There he was found 
some time after, by a policeman, in the cold, 
frosty night. He was taken to a station- 
house, and there Philip St. John’s weary 
search ended in the gray dawning. He took 
Geoffrey home with him, satisfied that there 
was no hope of cure in the boy’s own home 
even should his father relent. 

‘‘ Geoffrey is with us,” he wrote to the 
boy’s mother ; ‘‘ he is ill, and will have every 
attention. Come and see him if you possibly 
can.” 

When Geoffrey Fortescue opened his eyes 
in the little room beside that of his uncle, 
they rested on the face of his aunt, and his 
memory leaped away over the years that had 
intervened and took him back to the day 
when he parted from her on the street. He 
smiled a sad, weak smile. 

‘‘ I told you it was no use, auntie, and you 


230 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


see it wasn^t/’ he whispered. ‘‘ I guess it 
has finished me now.” 

Not yet, I hope, dear Geoffrey,” said Jus- 
tina. If God wills, you may be a man yet.” 

It was a long, long struggle. Mrs. For- 
tescue came and stayed by day for a while, 
reaching home in the evening, before her 
husband came from business. It was some 
time before she plucked up courage to tell 
him where she had been, and that Geoffrey 
was found. Indeed, he had not known that 
he was lost, but supposed that he was with 
some of his friends. 

Tell him,” said the father, that when 
he can behave like a gentleman he may come 
home.” 

A racking cough shook Geoffrey’s wasted 
frame and a hectic fiush dyed his cheek. 
He grew weaker as the days went on, and 
finally Justina told Mrs. Fortescue that she 
thought it would be better for her to stay by 
night also. The words struck a chill to the 
mother’s heart, but she accepted the sugges- 
tion. 

At first Geoffrey continually begged his 
uncle to keep him. 


A FATHBB’S DUTY. 


231 


‘‘ I don’t want to go away, Uncle Philip,” 
he would say, piteously ; ‘‘ I don’t want to go 
where I can see the accursed stuff. No, not 
home. Poor mother ! she didn’t know what 
she was doing.” 

Philip and Justina saw from the first that 
the case was hopeless ; no medical skill could 
save Geoffrey. All his vital forces were ex- 
hausted, and he had no power to battle 
against the disease brought on by exposure 
and excess. Their only anxiety was to fit 
him for heaven. 

The craving for alcohol wore away at last, 
and one day Geoffrey suddenly said to Jus- 
tina, who was sitting by him, 

‘‘ Auntie, I believe God has forgiven me. 
He has taken away that dreadful craving ; I 
have not wanted wine for two days now. I 
asked him to take it away, and he has heard 
me.” 

“ That is indeed a thing to be thankful 
for,” said Justina. 

I am content to die, then, auntie. I was 
afraid to die so long as I had that feeling, for 
I could not feel that I had repented.” 

So the days stole away. Geoffrey bore all 


232 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


his sufferings and pain without a murmur. 
When able, he loved to talk with Philip and 
Justina about the heavenly home ; and when 
not able to bear conversation, he loved to 
have them read to him or to have Jean re- 
peat her old Scotch psalms. 

Poor Mrs. Fortescue ! This talk was an 
unknown language to her. Often did Geof- 
frey urge her to keep little Guy from follow- 
ing in his footsteps. At his earnest request 
she brought him to see his brother. 

‘‘ Guy,’’ said Geoffrey, solemnly, one even- 
ing, as the little fellow stood by his bedside, 
do you know what made me ill ?” 

‘‘ No,” said the boy, in an awestricken 
voice; for the pale face of his brother im- 
pressed him deeply. 

‘^It was wine, boy. Whatever you do, 
don’t ever touch it. No matter what any 
one says to you, don’t taste it ; tell the tempt- 
er that it killed your brother. — Oh, mother,” 
he said, turning to her, “ as you value your 
happiness, do not let him be tempted. You 
have only him left now. Dear mother, per- 
haps God will let you be happy yet if you 
teach him what is right.” 


A FATITFB’S DUTY. 


233 


“ Oh, Geoff,’’ cried the poor mother, 
‘‘ maybe you’ll get well. I can’t bear to hear 
you talk so.” 

‘‘ Poor mother !” he said, softly. “ But 
you don’t understand ; I don’t want to live. 
This world is too hard a place for a fellow 
like me ; everything draws him down.” 

A few evenings later Geoffrey said good- 
night cheerfully, then said, 

‘‘I think I will sleep well to-night; I feel 
sleepy.” 

It was Jean’s watch. The invalid seemed 
to sleep quietly for a while, but about mid- 
night there was a sudden silence ; even his 
breathing seemed to stop. Jean rose quick- 
ly; there was a new light on his face. Jean 
softly closed his eyes : he was with the angels. 

It was not the woman who had always 
allowed her son’s strong will to sway her, 
and who had deferred to his slightest sug- 
gestion, that confronted Mark Fortescue in 
his library the next evening ; it was an out- 
raged mother, her eyes blazing with impotent 
rage. 

‘‘Mark,” she said, in a constrained, un- 
natural voice, “ you said Geoffrey could come 


234 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


home when he could come like a gentleman, 
did you not?” 

“Yes,” said Mr. Fortescue, startled at his 
wife’s unusual looks and voice. 

“ He has come,” she said, still in that 
strangely repressed voice ; “ let me show 
him to you.” 

Impelled by some power outside of him- 
self, Mr. Fortescue followed mechanically to 
Geoffrey’s own room. Mrs. Fortescue opened 
the door and pointed to the still form on the 
bed. 

“ He has come,” she said, then, with a 
wild scream, fell heavily to the floor. 

Geoffrey’s mother was not present when 
her son’s body was carried to the family vault 
with all the profusion of display — carriages, 
flowers and emblems of mourning — that is 
common in these later days. It was many 
weeks afterward when she rose, a white-haired 
woman, from the bed where she had been 
laid that night ; but there was something in 
her face that had never been there before. 
I)r. Atwell came to comfort her, but she 
said, 

“ I can be comforted only in one way, 


A FATjETFU’S duty. 


235 


doctor. I have learned that I am a sinner ; 
I hope I have learned that I have a Saviour. 
I have learned, too, that one cannot warm a 
serpent in his bosom without being bitten. 
I killed my boy, but I did not do it alone. 
Every friend who upholds or practices social 
drinking in any degree whatever, the saloon- 
keeper who throws his toils around innocent 
boys, the United States government, that sets 
its seal to the iniquitous traffic and enriches 
itself with the price of blood, are all acces- 
sories to the crime. As long as I live I can 
never again offer it to any one : I have only 
one child left now.’’ 

Dr. Atwell, as he sat with his family at 
dinner that evening, remarked to his wife 
that it was sad indeed to see what an effect 
Mrs. Fortescue’s illness had had on her; she 
seemed quite shaken in her mind. Even 
Mark Fortescue made no protest when liq- 
uors were banished from his table, and of- 
fered no apology to his guests for their ab- 
sence ; he had the grace to respect the feel- 
ings of his broken-hearted wife. But alas 
that it should have been done so tardily ! 


CHAPTER XXV. 

A STOBM AND A CALM. 

T hat was a hard winter for Justina and 
Philip. When Barbara was taken ill 
so suddenly, Mark Fortescue could not for- 
bid their seeing her, and so Justina came 
and stayed till the danger was past. A little 
happiness, too, resulted from all this trouble, 
for Guy was now allowed to visit his uncle 
and aunt. This was a decided advantage for 
Guy himself, for Jean, scandalized at the 
paucity of his religious knowledge, seized 
every opportunity to teach him what she 
could ; so she began with the catechism and 
her favorite psalms. 

Indeed, mem,’’ she said to Justina, ‘‘ ye 
little ken what ignorance the bairn has been 
left in. His minds’ fu’ o’ warlocks an’ 
ghaists, an’ sic like trumpery, an’ not ane o’ 
the Bible stories does he ken. An’ sic heaps 
o’ ’em, jist, ye micht say, writ for the bairns ! 


A STOBM AND A CALM. 


237 


There’s a’ aboot wee Moses, an’ puir Joseph 
ta’en awa’ frae his auld faither, an’ young 
David killin’ the gi’nt, an’ the uncanny ra- 
vens feed in’ Elijah, an’ Daniel th rawed in the 
lions’ den, an’, aboon a’, the Babe o’ Bethle- 
hem. An’ he’s a smart laddie, too. Miss 
Justina, by ordinar’ at the lamin’ an’ o’ a 
douce disposition.” 

For the rest of his life Guy had reason to 
bless the hour when Jean let the light of the 
Holy Book into his youthful heart. Never 
was he so happy as at Uncle Philip’s, sitting 
by Jean in the kitchen or following her about 
as she worked, while she told him the won- 
drous story of God’s ancient people in their 
wanderings through the desert. His love 
of the marvelous was fed to the full by these 
never-aging tales. 

Oh, Jean,” he said as she told how Moses 
struck the rock, and how the thirsty people 
crowded around and drank their fill, ‘‘ how I 
would like to have been Moses giving the 
water to the poor people ! How much they 
must have loved him !” 

“ Indeed, bairn,” said Jean, ‘‘ they were 
muckle like oursel’s oftentimes: they were 


238 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


unco thankless. Whan the need was ower 
an’ they began to whinge for something else, 
they were aye girnin’ at puir Moses, an’ they 
were even ready to stane him. But, ye ken, 
laddie,” she said, looking at him kindly, “ ye 
can help to gie the bread an’ water o’ life to 
many a starvin’, thirsty soul. Gie ye tell 
these stories to the men an’ maids in your 
faither’s hoose an’ yer ane companions, ye’ll 
jist be gi’en them a drink o’ the pure water 
o’ life itsel’.” 

Years afterward the Bev. Guy Fortescue, 
celebrated for his peculiar power of impress- 
ing the poor and the ignorant, was asked as 
to his methods and where he had learned his 
theology. He was wont to reply, 

“The best theological training I ever had 
was given me by Jean Dougal in my uncle’s 
kitchen.” 

But there was another trial in store for the 
brother and the sister. It was in the early 
spring that late in the evening they were 
startled by a sudden ring. They sat in ex- 
pectancy, when, to their intense surprise, 
Jean opened the door and ushered in Fran- 
ces Esterbrook; she was leading Lola. 


A STOBM AND A CALM. 


239 


“Why, Frances!’’ exclaimed Philip. 
“ What is wrong ? What has brought you 
here ?” 

Frances laughed — not a mirthful laugh : 

“ What should be wrong ? Is it not time 
.1 should come to see you?” 

“ But so late ! Is anything wrong at 
home?” 

“Nothing more than usual,” said Frances, 
dryly. “ Let us have some tea, will you 
not?” she went on, “and then I shall be 
obliged if your maid will put Lola to bed.” 

Lola was examining everything about the 
room, and now she came forward and said, 

“Uncle Philip, I don’t think I should 
like to live in such a little bit of a house,” 

“Why?” asked Philip, taking her on 
his knee, while Justina gave directions to 
Jean. 

“ Because I should soon know everything 
that is in it, and then I should get tired of 
it.” 

“ Preserve ’s I” said Jean to herself as she 
prepared the room. “That’s Miss Justina’s 
sister. She’s nae mair like her than nicht 
is like to day.” 


240 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


After tea Lola was handed over to Jean to 
put to bed. After she had done so Jean 
privately confided to Mrs. Taylor that she 
was ‘‘ a maist uncanny wean.’’ 

“Now, Frances,” said Philip, when they 
were alone, “we would be glad of a visit 
from you under ordinary circumstances, but 
I know there is something out of the way. 
What is it?” 

“ I have come to stay with you and J us- 
tina,” she said, with a short laugh. 

“ ‘ To stay ’ ! How long ?” 

“ ‘ How long ’ ? Peally, I don’t know. I 
mean to reside, to make my home, with 
you.” 

“Frances,” said Philip, impatiently, “this 
is no matter for jest. Where is Richard?” 

“ At his club, I suppose,” she said, bitterly. 

“ Does he know you have come here ?” 

“ No.” 

“ Have you quarreled with him ?” 

“Quarreled with Richard?” Frances re- 
peated. “ Could anybody quarrel with him ? 
I wish he cared enough about me to quarrel 
with me. I could make up a quarrel, but 
what can I do with indifference except beat 


A STORM AND A CALM. 


241 


my head against the bars of my cage and 
kill myself? But I will not! ” she said, ex- 
citedly, rising and beginning to pace the floor. 
“ I will show him that I can live without 
him.” 

‘‘ Frances,” said her brother, this is more 
serious than I dreamed of. You are entirely 
weary. Go to bed, and you will be wiser 
when you wake up. — Take her up stairs, 
Justina,” he said. 

When Justina and Frances had left the 
room, Philip sent a message to Bichard, tell- 
ing him where Frances was and asking him 
to come. It was a little after midnight when 
Bi chard came, but he found Philip still up. 

‘‘ What freak is this ?” said Bichard as soon 
as they sat down. 

“That is what I want to ask you,” said 
Philip. “All I know is that Frances came 
here late this evening, bringing Lola with 
her and declaring her intention of staying. 
Plave you had no falling out?” 

“ No ; you know Frances gives me a piece 
of her mind pretty often, but I don’t re- 
member anything unusual. She often tells 
me we should never have been married. I 


16 


242 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


believe she did tell me so this morning, and 
I told her I guessed she was right. Could 
she have taken that in earnest?” 

She maintains that you don’t care about 
her, and that she is under no obligation to 
live with a man who has no affection for her. 
I think that if you can assure her you really 
do love her all will be well enough.” 

‘‘ I don’t know what more assurance she 
wouldn’t want. I got tired years ago of re- 
peating it over. I don’t mean of making 
love to her, but of contradicting her asser- 
tion that I didn’t love her. She did not 
make me very comfortable at home when we 
were alone, and so much of her time was 
taken up with the claims of society that I 
got to seeking my own amusement. 1 did 
not find fault with her, and I did not think 
it reasonable in her to expect me to be al- 
ways at home to amuse her when she had no 
one else to do so.” 

‘‘ I’m afraid she herself is most to blame, 
Eichard,” said Philip, “ but I sent for you, 
so that if possible we might prevent scandal ; 
and I thought, too, that if she saw you cared 
enough for her to come she would be cured 


A STOBM AND A CALM. 


243 


of some of her foolish notions. Let us go 
to bed now, and see what can be done in the 
morning. What did you say at home ? Did 
the servants know she had left 

‘‘Yes; I told them that Mrs. Fortescue. 
was at her brother’s house, and that I should 
come for her and should probably stay all 
night.” 

“Well, come up with me,” said St. John. 

There was little sleeping done by any of 
the four. When they came down in the 
morning, Frances and Justina did not know 
that Mr. Esterbrook had come. 

“ I have a guest here for breakfast,” said 
St. John ; “he came after you went to bed.” 

Justina understood, but Frances did not 
till she heard Richard’s step outside the door. 
She turned pale and drew herself up haugh- 
tily. 

“Frances,” whispered Justina, “don’t, I 
beseech you, make a scene before Lola.” 

Richard came in, and, warned by Justina’s 
caution, Frances submitted to his kiss and 
greeting. 

The bell rang for breakfast, and all went 
out to the dining-room. St. John took his 


244 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


place and Justina brought the Bibles and 
distributed them. 

‘‘ This is our usual hour for morning wor- 
ship/’ said Philip ; “ we shall be glad to have 
you with us.” 

It was a new experience to Richard and 
Frances. Philip and Justina were good 
singers, and Jean, too, had a sweet voice. A 
thrill went through Richard Esterbrook as 
he followed the beautiful words : 


“ Praise waits for thee in Zion, Lord, 

To thee vows paid shall be ; 

O Thou tliat Hearer art of prayer, 

All flesh shall come to thee. 
Iniquities, I must confess. 

Prevail against me do. 

But as for our transgressions, Lord, 
Them purge away shalt thou. 

“ Blest is the man whom thou dost choose 
And mak’st approach to thee. 

That he within thy courts, O Lord, 

May still a dweller be. 

We surely shall be satisfied 
With thy abundant grace. 

And with the goodness of thy house, 
Even of thy holy place.” 


Philip then turned to Paul’s directions 
to husbands and wives, reading them, and 


A STORM AND A CALM. 


245 


afterward lifted up his voice in prayer that 
God would bless them all in their relations 
one to another. 

A kind of awe fell on Frances as she lis- 
tened. Did these people pray about every- 
thing ? Why, she thought, she should be 
afraid to live if she had to do that. Tried 
by their standard, what would her conduct 
be? It was a silent breakfast except for 
Lola’s chatter and questions about everything 
she saw. 

“Say, mamma,” she asked, “can’t I go 
with Jean after breakfast and see the babies 
at the day nursery ?” 

“What’s the child talking about?” said 
Frances. “ And who is Jean ?” 

“Jean is auntie’s maid; she combed my 
hair this morning, and she does not pull like 
Julie. She asked me why I didn’t say any 
prayers.” 

“ What did you tell her ?” asked Richard, 
with a gleam of his old mischief. 

“ I told her mamma hadn’t time to teach 
me and Julie didn’t know English. But 
may I go and see the babies?” 

Philip explained the matter, and Frances, 


246 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


as usual, got rid of the child’s importunities 
by saying ‘‘Yes.” 

Philip despatched a note to the office, tell- 
ing Mr. Wyman that he would not be there 
till the afternoon. 

“ Now,” he said, “ shall we leave you and 
Frances, Pichard, to settle this misunder- 
standing yourselves, or can we help you in 
any way ?” 

“You have been dragged into it,” said 
Pichard, “ so you may as well see us through. 
— Frances, will you please tell Philip and Jus- 
tina why you were going to such an extreme ? 
Can any words of mine convince you that 
I love you ?” 

“ I thought you were hampered with me, 
and that I would relieve you. Why should 
two people who are always jarring on each 
other’s feelings be compelled to live together 
at all ?” 

“Frances, my dear girl,” said Philip, “it 
ceases to be a matter of choice after the two 
have been made one. You had the choice 
in your own hands long ago. Pichard chose 
you from all the world ; you were free to ac- 
cept him or not as you liked. You accepted 


A STOHM AJVJ) A CALM. 


247 


him. You may have made a mistake, but 
after you were man and wife no power on 
earth could give you the right to separate. 
There is only one scriptural cause for divorce ; 
Christ makes that plain, and no man can 
change his laws. They are fixed. The 
cause of a great deal of misery in this age 
is that people have an idea the world owes 
them happiness ; if they don’t get it, they act 
like spoiled children who cry for the moon. 
— Now, Frances, you must let me speak 
plainly. You want something you have 
not got, and something you can never have 
but by the grace of God. That is the only 
thing that will ever make any one happy. 
Whatever is lacking, you blame it on Rich- 
ard. You foolishly supposed, when you 
married him, that you were going to be in 
paradise all your life, without troubling 
yourself to ask for anything higher. God 
never made any one to be happy so. Well, 
then, your faultfinding with Richard made 
him unhappy. He didn’t find happiness at 
home, either, and went to the wrong place 
to seek it. Now you have both got your 
eyes opened : you know what you ought to 


248 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


do. Begin anew, and ask the blessing of God 
on your union. Try to bear with each other’s 
faults and get back to where you were twelve 
years ago.” 

Shall we try, Frances ?” said Ester brook, 
turning toward her. She held out her hands 
to him, sobbing. Philip and Justina slipped 
away and left them alone. 

Several hours afterward Philip came into 
the room again. 

‘‘How shall we thank you, brother Philip?” 
said Bichard. 

“Show your gratitude by staying here a 
few days,” said Philip; and so they did. 

“Now,” said Frances, when they were go- 
ing away, “ you must come to visit us often 
and see that we don’t run off the track.” 

“You will need better help than ours to 
keep you from running off the track,” said 
Philip. “ You know where to find it ; don’t 
let go your hold for a moment.” 

So Bichard and Frances began over again, 
leaving the wasted life behind them. 

Several weeks afterward Bichard called at 
Philip’s office ; he looked like a different 
man. 


A STORM AND A CALM. 


249 


‘‘ All right yet/’ he said, cheerily. I 
have a request to make: do you suppose 
they will take a fellow like me into the fold 
if he comes down to your church and asks 
to enter its membership ?” 

Of course ! That is what it is for — pro- 
vided the fellow means to do what he 
ought.” 

‘‘ I know what you mean,” said Richard ; 
“your preaching on that Sabbath question 
hasn’t been lost. I’m going down to-mor- 
row morning to resign my place if they do 
not listen to my protest. I’ve been trying 
to do right, but I am a new hand. I couldn’t 
quite gather up courage to call in the servants 
and begin family prayers, but Frances and 
Lola and I have read and prayed in our 
room ever since we were here, and I think I 
will take the plunge to-night and do it pub- 
licly. We will have to reduce our establish- 
ment if I resign. Good-bye, Philip, and 
thank you for the purest happiness I have 
ever known.” 

Richard carried out his intentions regard- 
ing both family worship and resigning his 
place in the railroad company, and the follow- 


250 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


ing Sabbatli was received into the communion 
of the church among the band of earnest 
worshipers where Philip and Justina at- 
tended. 


CHAPTER XXyi. 

SOULLESS CORPORATIONS. 

I ^HE following week, in good spirits and 
- just as heedless of the sneers of his old 
companions as he had ever been of good 
counsel, Richard Esterbrook left his family 
and went to consult with some of his friends 
about some means of bettering the condition 
of the railroad-men. In an instant, without 
a moment’s warning, there was a sudden jar, 
a confused mass of broken cars, of dead 
and of dying ; and in a few moments more 
the flames, communicated from the engine, 
increased the horror. A defective bridge 
had given away, and the locomotive, drag- 
ging the train with it, was thrown into the 
river. 

Among those who came to the aid of the 
sufferers was a sad-faced woman, and with 
her was a little girl. 


261 


252 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


‘‘ Oh, Annie,” said the woman, how it 
brings back your father’s death !” She 
stopped beside a man who had just been 
taken from the wreck and laid upon the 
river-bank. Annie, Annie !” she said. It 
is the same kind gentleman who came to us 
then.” She bent down and gently closed 
the unseeing eyes, then said, as she arose, 
‘‘ He does not need us any more ; let us go 
to those who do.” 

Yes, it was Richard Esterbrook. The 
business-world was shocked for a little while, 
but soon went on its busy way, unheeding. 
Poor Frances’s happiness with him had been 
of short duration, but she had found endur- 
ing happiness which even his death could 
not take from her. The rest of her life was 
spent in an earnest endeavor to do her duty 
to those about her, and in preparing to meet 
him who she believed had found mercy at 
the eleventh hour. 

As this was clearly a case for the company 
against some one, it was taken up and prose- 
cuted vigorously. It was finally proved that 
the material used in the bridge was inferior, 
and that the construction itself was faulty. 


SOULLESS CORPORATIONS. 


253 


The dishonest contractor was accordingly 
fined in a large sum. 

What else can you expect, Mr. Dallas 
said St. John to a stockholder in the com- 
pany who had come to tell him of the ver- 
dict. “ When a company of men not only 
permits but compels its servants to break 
one of God’s commandments as a condition 
of continuing in its service, it is not strange 
if for their own gain they break another.” 

“ I do not understand you,” said Mr. 
Dallas. 

Do not railroad companies systematically 
teach their employes to disregard the fourth 
commandment, ‘ Demember the Sabbath day 
to keep it holy ’ ?” 

‘‘ But think of the necessity !” 

“ I beg your pardon, Mr. Dallas ; that is 
only a fiction. If it could be shown conclu- 
sively that railroads lose money by running 
trains on the Sabbath, you would very soon 
see them shut down on traffic for that day.” 

Well, but I don’t exactly see what con- 
nection that has with the case of this rascally 
contractor.” 

very direct connection,” said St. John. 


254 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


“Your contractor very naturally says to 
himself, ‘My employer allows us to break 
the fourth commandment for his profit; why 
shouldn't I break the eighth for my own V 
and so may every man employed in railroad 
service, in the postal service and in the pre- 
paring of ‘ Sunday ’ newspapers argue.” 

“ But the postal service ! That is a govern- 
ment affair.” 

“ Yes ; and when a government as such 
breaks God’s commandments, as a govern- 
ment he punishes it. When the government 
enacts statutes of its own not founded on the 
law of God, it weakens its foundation ; and if 
the faulty material is not taken out in time, 
the whole fabric will suddenly go crashing 
into ruin just as your bridge did.” 

“But, Mr. St. John, that is strange teach- 
ing. Individuals, of course, are bound by 
the moral law, but the government ! What 
has it to do with religion?” 

“ Irreligion has a great deal to do with 
governments, at all events, if you look nar- 
rowly into history. The government, ac- 
cording to republican ideas, should be the 
exponent of the will of the nation. The 


SOULLESS CORPORATIONS. 


255 


nation is composed of individuals, and those 
individuals are bound to carry their religion 
— if they have any — into politics as well as 
into every other relation in life. If they do 
not, nothing is more certain than that decided 
irreligion will pervade the whole mass. But 
my idea is that the Church should take cog- 
nizance of religious matters.” 

“ Perhaps,” said Mr. Dallas, doubtfully, 
looking at St. John askance, you are one 
of those who advocate union of Church and 
State ? That, you know, would relegate us 
to the Dark Ages.” 

“ No,” said St. John, “ I do not at all be- 
lieve in that, but I do believe that Christ is 
King of the State as well as Head of the 
Church ; the one is his institution as well as 
the other. Founded by him at the creation 
of the world, he is Lord of both. Entirely 
distinct, yet co-ordinate, it is impossible for 
a man to acknowledge him in the one capa- 
city and to ignore him in the other. By so 
doing the government as such, and each citi- 
zen in his individuality as a part of the great 
whole, put themselves in the category of those 
who say, ‘ We will not have this man to reign 


256 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


over US. Let us break his bands and cast his 
cords from us.’ I speak strongly, Mr. Dal- 
las, but no more strongly than I feel. My 
soul burns with shame when I think of some 
of our transactions with other nations. Not 
long since I was talking with an American 
official who ably represents our government 
in foreign parts. He was telling me of a 
remonstrance he was making to the govern- 
ment to which he was accredited in a case 
of oppression of some of its own subjects. 

‘ Why,’ said the foreigner, ‘ this is strange ; 
why should you concern yourself in these 
matters? We are merely ruling our own 
subjects as we choose. You, in your coun- 
try, shut out the Chinese, who are not under 
your authority at all.’ — ‘And what did 
you say to that ?’ I asked. — ‘ What could I 
say?’ was the reply. ‘I changed the sub- 
ject as soon as possible.’ All these nations 
point the finger of scorn at us and say that 
that is a Christian nation.” 

It was not often that Philip was so carried 
away by his subject. He stopped now, and 
Mr. Dallas rose to go, with a polite regret 
for having consumed so much of his time. 


SOULLESS CORPORATIONS. 


257 


Just as he reached the door, however, he 
turned and said, 

“ Excuse me, Mr. St. John ; I had almost 
forgotten one thing about which I wished to 
speak. If your idea of Sunday work is cor- 
rect, do you not think it rather strange that 
Ester brook should have been killed just after 
he gave up all connection with the road on 
account of this very thing, which he main- 
tained caused so many accidents?” 

‘‘ No,” said Philip. ‘‘ It is not safe for us 
to try to fit God’s providences to our ideas 
of men’s good or evil deserts or to decide in 
such a case as this that God is punishing sin. 
Jesus expressly tells us that we are not to say 
that those are sinners above others who perish 
in such calamities.” 

Mr. Dallas at last took his leave, and as 
he walked briskly along the street his 
thoughts ran as follows : 

Might as well go to church as go to St. 
John’s office. Bible lying there. Mad as a 
March hare. Queer if there should be some- 
thing in his notions, after all. Wouldn’t 
there be an upheaving of some of our laws, 
though, if they had to go back to the Bible ! 

17 


258 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


Let’s see how it would work. ‘Woe unto 
him that giveth his neighbor drink, that 
puttest thy bottle to him and makest him 
drunken that would upset the license law. 
‘ Hath made of one blood all nations of men 
for to dwell on all the face of the earth 
‘ Whatsoever ye would that men should do 
unto you, do ye even so to them that would 
sweep off the Chinese restriction bill. ‘ Choose 
ye out men fearing God and hating covetous- 
ness that would change the whole basis of 
our elections. ‘ Which frameth mischief by 
a law that would turn upside down a vast 
number of little jobs put up in our legisla- 
tures and municipal councils.’ ” 

Mr. Dallas reached his office and plunged 
into business, but all day long there rang in 
his ears the cry of the weeping prophet : 
“ Shall not I visit for these things ? saith the 
Lord, and shall not my soul be avenged on 
such a nation as this?” 


CHAPTER XXyil. 

THE NEW REGIME, 

A nd now, as a relief to our feelings after 
these scenes of discomfort and unhappi- 
ness in the homes of both poor and rich, let 
us take a long step forward and see our old 
friends in their new quarters — the working- 
girls’ home. Mike Denis was now in a 
permanent situation as porter to the estab- 
lishment. 

We will take the liberty of going through 
the third floor, as it is occupied by the family 
composed of those girls whose acquaintance 
we have already made. Supper-hour is a 
good time to see them at their happiest. 
Only a little while ago their daily task was 
done ; it now lasts but eleven hours — from six 
to twelve, then from one to six again. An 
hour’s rest is allowed at noon, so that there 
may be time for a short walk to breathe the 

259 


260 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


outside air or to get their own lunch if they 
choose. Lunch sold by the firm is a thing of 
the past ; now, for the most part, it is brought 
from home and paid for each week, in ad- 
dition to the charge for lodging and board- 
ing, which is interpreted to mean two meals 
only. The third, as I have said, was optional, 
some of the girls preferring to go out and get 
something hot. 

Seated at the head of the table is Miss 
Garrett, the matron of this particular family. 
She rings a bell, which is soon after answered 
by a troop of chattering girls. There are 
our old friends Kate Hill, Jane Lawson, 
Deborah Allen, Selina Crane and — Yes, 
even Etta Smith, Gyp Moore, Tillie Harris 
and Bride Casey. Four take their seats at 
one side of the table and four at the other, 
and just as they have seated themselves Grace 
Johnson comes in and takes the chair at the 
foot of the table, opposite to Miss Garrett. 
Her stay at Mr. St. John’s has given her an 
insight into the mysteries of civilized life not 
yet possessed by the others, and fits her to be 
a leader to them. 

The long, plain room is simply furnished, 


THE NEW RtlQIME. 


261 


but is warm, comfortable and well lighted. 
The table is covered with a cloth, but it is 
clean : cleanliness is one of the cardinal vir- 
tues in this establishment. A few bright flow- 
ers occupy the centre. Flowers are a luxury 
that all can enjoy, each having her own 
particular pot of them in the large, sunny 
bay-window of the common sitting-room. 
The bread on the well-fllled plate is brown, 
but it is light and sweet. 

Miss Garrett’s ring had been followed not 
only by the girls, but by a trim little maid 
bringing in a good juicy joint of meat sur- 
rounded with gravy, and this was succeeded 
by a huge platter of roast potatoes hot from 
the oven. These, with a dish of fragrant 
apple-sauce, formed the staple of the even- 
ing meal. When all had been set on, Sarah 
paused reverently, and the girls’ heads were 
bowed while Miss Garrett asked the blessing 
of the heavenly Father on the food before 
them. 

The meal began. Miss Garret poured out 
the fragrant tea, and the tongues were loosed. 
The experiences of the day were related to 
Miss Garrett, who, it was taken for granted. 


262 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


had a deep interest in everything that inter- 
ested the girls. 

I have great news for you all/^ she said. 
‘‘ Miss St. John is coming to take tea and 
spend the evening with us.’’ 

“ ‘ Miss St. John ’ !” exclaimed Jane Law- 
son. “ She is so rich that we’ll be ashamed 
to have her sit down to such food as we get.” 

‘ Such food as we get ’ !” remarked Kate. 
“ You are getting too fine, Jane. How long 
have we had such food? We can’t afford to 
quarrel with it.” 

Miss St. John is not used to high living 
at home,” said Grace Johnson. “ Of course 
everything is nice and good — Mrs. Taylor is 
a first-class cook — but there is nothing ex- 
travagant and no wasting, I can tell you. 
I’ll not soon forget a reproof Jean gave me 
one day while I was there. I was helping 
her to clear away the dishes from the table, 
and on one plate there was left some butter. 
I was just going to scrape it into the waste- 
pan with the other scraps, when she caught 
niy arm. ‘ Dinna do that, lassie,’ she said ; 
‘we dinna thraw awa’ guid victuals i’ that 
gate.’ — ‘ But that little bit !’ I said. ‘ And such 


THE NEW RMIME. 


263 


rich people too !’ — ‘ Ay, but, lassie,’ she said, 
‘ they dinna spend their riches on themsel’s, 
and we put a’ the clean scraps awa’ wi’ care. 
That bit o’ butter would spread a piece for 
some bairn that never tastes butter at hame. 
There’s many a pudding an’ tidbit made o’ 
what ithers wad waste, an’ they taste vera 
guid to puir bodies wha hae stomachs too 
delicate for the food they can afford to get. 
Ye min’ me, an’ I’ll read ye aboot boo the 
Lord himsel’, that could mak’ the breid by 
a word o’s mouth, tauld the disciples to 
gather up the fragments. I warrant he knew 
weel that it was ‘‘ come easy go easy ” an’ how 
prone we are to be spendthrifts. Ye’ll jist 
min’ he gies it a’ to us, lassie ; an’ gin he 
should ask us, Did ye gie a bit o’ breid 
or a pickle butter to this ane or that ane?” 
I warrant Ave wad be unco’ blate to say, 
’Deed, na. Lord ; I jist thrawed it out.” ’ ” 

“How I wish I could see that Jean you 
talk so much about !” said Kate Hill. 

“ You did not ask me why Miss St. John 
is coming,” said Miss Garrett. “ She is go- 
ing to introduce to us a young lady who is 
Avilling to teach you two hours three evenings 


264 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


of every week. I hope you will do all you 
can to improve yourselves.^’ 

Selina Crane checked herself in the act 
of drawing out her pocket-handkerchief to 
take the place of the napkin to which she 
had not yet become accustomed. 

“ H’l don’t see,” she said, in her slow way, 
‘‘ ’ow h’I’m to get time for lessons. H’I’ve 
got my mendin’ to do.” 

“ Oh, Selina,” said Deb Allen, who was 
quite a different-looking girl now that she 
was neatly shod and dressed, ‘‘you never 
will get done with that precious ‘ mendin’ ’ of 
yours. I’ll help you, so you can learn to 
read.” 

“ H’l think as ’ow the readin’ ’ll be ’arder 
than the mendin’, but h’I’ll try.” 

Supper and evening worship being over, 
the girls gathered in the sitting-room. Deb 
Allen, Gyp, Bride and Tillie, with their 
work, grouped themselves about Etta — the 
only one of the five who could even stumble 
through a book — while she read to them. 
Selina sat a little apart, absorbed in her 
“mendin’.” Kate, who was fond of music, 
but had never before had her wish gratified. 



In the Working Girls’ Home. 


Page 264, 





THE NEW REGIME. 


265 


under Miss Garrett’s instructions picked out 
a few tunes, which she played softly to her- 
self on the organ. 

It had been a question with Philip whether 
he should risk Etta Smith and her three 
companions among the other girls, but Grace 
Johnson’s advice was to try it; she thought 
the girls were not vicious, but, had been, in 
a manner, driven into evil courses. 

“ They are rude and bold,” she said, but 
where will they go that they will not get 
worse ?” 

That was an argument for which Philip 
had no answer. 

‘‘We will help them all we can,” said 
Grace. 

One of the chief features of the sitting- 
room was its neat, well-filled bookcase. 

At fifteen minutes to nine a bell rang; the 
girls rose, put away work, books and music, 
and went to their sleeping-rooms. Each 
room was fitted up for two. A bed, com- 
fortable and well supplied with warm, clean 
clothing, two folding-chairs, a wash-stand 
with its furniture, a toilet-table with a mirror 
above it, two closets for clothes and a bright, 


266 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


warm rug before each bed completed the ap- 
pointments ; the other flats were arranged in 
the same manner. The kitchen was on the 
first floor, and the meals for the whole estab- 
lishment were cooked at once. At the proper 
hour the food for each story was placed in 
its own box in the elevator ; a bell was rung 
at each landing, and the maid belonging to 
that story took out her own box and served 
the meal. The dishes were washed by the 
maid and sent down each in their own box. 

Lights were soon out, and the workers were 
sound asleep. It seemed but a moment till 
the rising-bell rang, at a quarter to five. 
All were ready for breakfast at five, and be- 
fore they began to eat joined in morning 
worship. Breakfast varied. This morning 
it was hot oatmeal porridge, with good milk, 
hash made from the joint and potatoes of 
the evening before, good coffee, bread aud 
butter. While they ate, the maid prepared 
lunch for those who desired it, and by half- 
past five they were all ready for the street. 
There were no more fines for lateness ; sleep- 
ing soundly, the girls were ready to rise at 
the proper time. Strengthened by the 


THE NEW REGIME. 


267 


warmth and food and light as these girls 
were, Madam Nettleby herself was a gainer 
by this vagary of Philip’s, for the work done 
by them was better in both quality and quan- 
tity than it had been in the old times. 

Before we leave Madam Nettleby’s workers 
we must cast a glance backward and look at 
Bessie Byan. Philip had the next morning 
after his trip of exploration sent a trusty 
agent to have her removed to the hospital. 
At first Bessie could not understand how it 
was that she could afford to lie still and be 
waited on, and not go to her work. Day by 
day she grew weaker, yet as she compre- 
hended at last that kind friends did all this 
for her for the sake of One whom they loved, 
she became quite happy. Everything seemed 
so peaceful. The great bright room, with its 
pictures, its flowers, even its singing-birds, was 
a paradise to her. She would lie and look at 
the white bed, taking up the counterpane and 
smoothing it with her thin hands with child- 
ish delight. 

To think,” she said, one night, to the 
nurse who was beside her, ‘‘ that some one 
has done all this for me!” 


268 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


Yes, Bessie,” said the nurse, gently. 
‘‘ Some one did more than this for you : some 
one died to get all this for you.” 

Oh, Miss Perry,” said Bessie, with a 
pained face and the tears starting in her 
eyes, I’m' so sorry !” 

“ No ; you needn’t be sorry now, Bessie. 
All he asks of you is that you love him.” 

Oh, I do love him, whoever he is,” said 
Bessie, with a quiver in her voice, but I 
can’t ever tell him so if he’s dead.” 

“ No, Bessie dear,” said Miss Perry ; ‘‘ ^ he 
was dead, but he ‘ liveth evermore.’ ” 

I don’t understand, though. How can 
he live if he is dead?” 

‘‘ I’ll tell you all about it to-morrow ; I 
have another patient waiting, so I must go. 
Say these words: Mesus, have mercy on 
me.’ ” 

Bessie repeated the words softly to herself 
and fell asleep. M^hen, next day, she saw 
Miss Perry, the latter had in her hand a 
little book. 

have come to tell you about Jesus, 
Bessie,” she said ; and once more the old 
story that yet is ever new was told to eager, 


THE NEW RilGIME. 


269 


listening ears. Bessie’s faith was childlike 
and complete. 

‘‘ And he loves you, Bessie, far more than 
does Mr. St. John, who brought you here. 
It was he who sent Mr. St. John to you ; it 
is he who will save you in death and take 
you to glory,” concluded Miss Perry. 

From that day Bessie’s great delight was 
to find some one who would talk to her about 
her new home where she was soon to go. 
JNIrs. Denis came to see her, and told her the 
good news she herself had heard. 

“You know, Mrs. Denis,” said Bessie. 
“ I am different from you. You have Mike 
and the children, but I have nobody.” 

The end came one spring day. Miss Perry 
and another of the nurses sat by Bessie’s bed- 
side. 

“ ‘ Yea, though I walk through the valley 
of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil/ ” 
repeated Miss Perry, softly. 

Bessie looked up with a bright smile. 

“ Oh, but it isn’t dark. Miss Perry,” she 
whispered ; “ it is all light — light.” These 
were her last words ; the eternal life had be- 
gun. 


270 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


When Philip took Carrie Lowman home 
with him, as we related in a former chapter, 
she with Grace Johnson occupied one of the 
guest-chambers in his own house. Having 
heard Philip’s story, Justina proposed that 
Grace should go and try to find Pauline also. 
By dint of great persuasion Grace got Paul- 
ine to go with her to the St. Johns’ home the 
next evening. 

“ Now, Pauline,” said Philip, you see 
this child must be taken to her father and 
mother ; she ought never to have left them. 
I cannot go with her ; she is not fit to be 
trusted alone, so I do not see what is to be 
done if you will not go with her.” 

Pauline consented to do so, and Justina 
sent with her a letter to Carrie’s parents, 
telling the whole story and asking them to 
try and find some work for Pauline that she 
might not come back again to that dreadful 
life in the city. 

That evening found Pauline and Carrie 
on the platform of a little country station. 

‘‘ Oh, it’s so good to be here !” said Carrie, 
drawing a long breath. It’s so quiet and 
peaceful ! Come, Pauline and she took the 


THE NEW B^IGIME. 


271 


woman by the hand ; she was now the lead- 
er. “ It is not far/’ she said. “ Are you 
tired ?” 

But Pauline did not answer ; she walked 
as in a dream. 

Pauline and Carrie went off the platform, 
across the track, and there Carrie opened a 
gate leading into a field where the young 
grass was springing. 

Pauline drew back a little. 

‘‘ Do you think,” she said, in a whisper, 
“ they will allow us to go through the 
grass ?” 

Carried laughed : 

“ Why, it’s our own field, Pauline. See ! 
there’s the house, over there among the trees. 
Oh, I can hardly wait.” 

But Carrie did not have to wait; her 
mother had seen her afar off and ran to 
meet her. Questions rained down in a per- 
fect shower, but after a time, by the aid of 
Justina’s letter, all was made clear. 

Pauline was at last induced to stay. There 
was plenty of wwk for her to do in the 
farmers’ families roundabout, for she was a 
good needlewoman, though her brain was 


272 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


quite confused. When asked what her name 
was, she at first replied, 

‘‘ Pauline.” 

‘‘But your last name?” they would ask 
her again. 

One day the pastor in his service read of 
Mary Magdalene, out of whom Christ cast 
seven devils. 

“ I know now,” said Pauline to Carrie as 
they went home, “ what my last name is. 
They keep asking for my last name, but I 
did not know I had two names before. It’s 
Mary Magdalene. It was Pauline, you see 
— my name at first, but out of whom He 
cast seven devils. Yes, it’s Mary Magda- 
lene;” and in that mind she continued till 
the end of her life. She knew that she had 
received great blessing from the same Sa- 
viour who had blessed Mary Magdalene. He 
had cast demons out of her heart too, and 
had given her a new life. She never under- 
stood it clearly, but she knew enough to 
think of Jesus as her Deliverer and her best 
Friend. So her days went on in the sweet 
quiet of the country, and the good Hand that 
had rescued her shielded her and kept her. 


THE NEW REGIME. 


273 


It would be a shame to leave our Good 
Samaritan, Mrs. Denis, without having a peep 
at her in the new tenement-house. The fam- 
ily now occupied one of the five-room suites, 
which was left vacant in Philip’s house by 
the removal of its former occupants to the 
West. 

“ Indade,” says Mrs. Denis, with honest 
pride, now that Mike has got stiddy work 
and Cath’rin’ has left the matches and is a 
waiter in the new house, we’re just as grand 
as can be. If ye plaze to look, here’s the 
sittin’-room, real nate, and we have bedrooms 
for all the childer. It’s the beds, is it, yer 
askin’ about? Ye see, there are beds pro- 
vided, and they let us hev them by payin’ 
somethin’ on them ivery month. Cath’rin’ 
and Ellen, they pays for their own, and me 
and Mike, we have paid for ours, and we are 
now payin’ for Andy’s. Whin that’s done 
we will think about Mag and Carrie; for, 
ye see, Pete and Joe, they can sleep wi’ 
Andy. Pete and Joe and Mag, they goes to 
school, and me and the girls, we does the 
work at odd times. Mag tidies up the kitch- 
en; and when she comes from school puts 
18 


274 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


on the fire and boils the kittle for supper. 
Is it the childer? Sure, Carrie and the 
baby, I leaves them up stairs with Mrs. May, 
and she lets Andy stay there, so that the b’y 
won’t get lonesome. Sure, and the Lord’s 
been very good to us;” and Mrs. Denis, whom 
no privation could overcome, wipes her eyes 
furtively with her apron and trudges away 
to her work. 


CHAPTER XXYIII. 

JVSTINA SURPRISED. 

I T was summer again, and the heat was be- 
coming very intense. Philip and Justina 
were planning a trip for the girls in their 
working-girls’ home. 

“ 1 do not know what is the matter with 
Jean,” said Justina; “she does not seem a 
bit like herself. She must be going to be ill.” 

“ I hope not,” said Philip “ for she is our 
mainstay.” 

But the cause of the change in Jean was 
soon apparent. Several times she seemed on 
the point of telling Justina something im- 
portant, but her courage failed. 

“Jean,” said Justina, at last, “is anything 
the matter? I have for some time noticed 
that there seems to be something on your 
mind. Surely I have not been such a bad 
friend to you that you cannot confide in me?” 

275 


276 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


‘"'Deed, that’s just it, Miss Jiistina,” said 
the faithful Jean. ‘^It’s because you and 
Mr. Philip have been such good friends that 
I can’t bear to leave you.” 

‘‘ To leave us !” exclaimed Justina. ‘‘ Why, 
where are you going ? Do you want to go 
back to old Scotland to see your parents? 
We will give you a vacation for that if you 
choose ; you have certainly earned it.” 

Na, na. Miss Justina ; it isn’t that. I’m 
gane to be mairriet.” 

If a bomb had burst at her feet, Justina 
could not have been more wonder-struck ; 
she had never thought of matrimony and 
Jean in the same connection. She looked 
at the girl in amazement ; then a faint idea 
that this was not just the way to receive an 
announcement of this kind stole over her 
dazed brain. 

This is quite a surprise, Jean,” she said. 
‘‘Who is the man who has been so fortu- 
nate ?” 

“ It’s Duncan Stewart, Miss J ustina,” said 
Jean. “Ye ken him. He’s the man wha 
built the hame, an’ he does heaps o’ wark for 
Master Philip. He’s no vera young, but 


JUSTINA SURPRISED. 


277 


he’s a good steady man, an’ a godly ane for- 
bye.” 

“ But I don’t see how you got time to ar- 
range this thing, Jean. Where have you 
met him?” 

‘‘ Hoot, Miss Justina ! Thae things dinna 
tak’ muckle time to arrange ; whan they’re 
to be, they just arrange themsel’s. I hae met 
him whiles at Mrs. May’s an’ Mrs. Deland’s, 
an’ ither places, an’ we’re baith helpin’ in the 
nicht-school ; he’s teachin’ the lads aboot his 
trade.” 

“ An’ you’re sure you love him, Jean ?” 

‘‘ M^ad I mairry him else, think ye, Miss 
Justina, an’ leave you an’ Mr. Philip?” asked 
Jean, reproachfully. 

“True,” thought Justina; “Jean is not a 
‘ society ’ woman.” 

“We hae been promised this guid while,” 
continued Jean, “but I kep’ aye puttin’ him 
aff, for I culdna bear to leave ye, till at last 
he said if I didna speak t’ye he wad gang 
himsel’ to Mr. Philip an’ ask him if it was 
treatin’ him richt to let him wait sae lang.” 

“ Well, Jean,” said Justina, heartily, “ we 
shall be very sorry to lose you — I do not 


278 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


think we can ever fill your place — but I am 
glad indeed that you are to be happy in a 
home of your own. You will be married 
from here, of course. And when will the 
wedding be ?’^ 

That is for you to say, Miss Justina. 
I’m blithe that you want it to be frae here, 
for I hae nae ither harne ; but if ye wad like 
it, I wad write to my sister Alison an’ hae 
her come to tak’ my place. She’s a guid 
lassie, an’ stout an’ hearty. She’s maybe 
owre-young, but I culd rin in ance in a while 
mysel’, while she’s new, to pit her i’ the ways 
o’ things.” 

“ Indeed, Jean, if we are to lose you, I 
would like nothing better. Shall we have 
the wedding before we go away, then — in 
three weeks, say ? Could you get ready by 
that time ?” 

“ Ow, ay, I culd be ready, for I hae nae 
notion o’ warkin’ an’ slavin’ to get ready a 
heap o’ claes ; but if it’s a’ the same to you, 
Miss Justina, I wad rather wait till ye cam’ 
back, an’ then Alison wad be here.” 

‘‘If it’s the same to me!” said Justina. 
“ Of course the longer I keep you, the bet- 


JUSTINA SURPRISED. 


279 


ter ; but will it be all the same to Mr. Stew- 
art?’’ 

Dinna fash yersel’ about him, Miss 
Justina,” said Jean ; ‘‘a month or five weeks 
isna long to w^ait.” 

So the matter was settled. 

Justina could scarcely wait till her brother 
came home to tell him the great news. 

Philip,” she said, “ did it ever occur to 
you that Jean might get married?” 

Philip smiled. 

‘‘ Not until lately,” he said. I begin to 
be a little suspicious that my good Scotch 
builder has designs on our comfort. I have 
not needed to escort her home from night- 
school for some time.” 

‘‘ Why didn’t you tell me?” said Justina. 

‘‘ Well, I did not know whether anything 
was going to come of it, and I thought there 
was no use in making you uneasy.” 

“Jean has made a full confession to me 
to-day ; it is all settled.” 

When the St. Johns were safely back in 
their own home again, Alison Dougal came 
from across the wide sea to try life in the 
home where her sister had been so happy. 


280 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


The wedding was a very pleasant one, and, 
as the ceremony was to be in the early even- 
ing, Justina obtained permission for Lola and 
Guy to attend ‘‘ a real true wedding ’’ and to 
stay with her all night. Mr. and Mrs. Stew- 
art went to their own home when the guests 
had departed, and the next day received 
their friends there. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

A MISUNBFBSTAJVBING. 

TT must not be supposed that in all these 
J- years Justina had been allowed to go 
quietly on her way without an invitation to 
change her name and her home. Mr. Beres- 
ford, the pastor of the church to which she 
and Philip belonged, a devoted, faithful min- 
ister and a diligent coadjutor of Philip in 
his city mission work, had long ago asked 
her to share his life. Mr. Aylmer, an elo- 
quent lecturer from a Western city, who had 
kindly offered his services once or twice for 
the benefit of Philip’s reading-room, became 
acquainted with Justina, and made a vain 
effort to induce her to go with him to his 
distant home. 

After Jean’s marriage things fell back 
into their usual routine. Alison, with her 
sunny face, her bright hair and her bonny 

281 


282 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


blue eyes, was as deft a handmaid as heart 
could wish, but she lacked Jean’s capabilities 
and sagacity ; so that Justina had to work 
harder than she had done when Jean was 
her prime minister. 

It was now the third spring since Dr. 
Heathcote had gone back to his field of labor. 
The winter after his return Maud had gone 
to Wellesley College, but Mr. St. John’s home 
was hers. Her vacations were spent with 
Philip and Justina, and she was a great 
favorite. She was delighted to help in all 
the great works in which the St. Johns were 
engaged. She had fulfilled her early prom- 
ise of beauty, and to the St. Johns, who 
knew her best, her beauty of mind and soul 
was her chief charm. She was now at liome 
for a short vacation, and her school-life was 
to end in the early summer. 

Philip,” said Justina, it seems to me 
just like a calm after some great storm. 
Only think through what we have passed 
since Dr. Heathcote’s visit ! Soon after 
he went away came Geoffrey’s death, then 
that affair of poor Frances, and next Rich- 
ard’s sad death. Then the clouds began to 


A MISUNDERSTANDING. 


283 


disperse, and Jean’s marriage took place. 
Now, for a long time, there has been nothing 
to break the lull. What will come next, I 
wonder ?” 

Justina did not have long to wait till some- 
thing did turn up.' The postman’s ring was 
heard, and Maud ran out to take the letter. 

A letter from home. Miss Justina,” she 
cried, running in with it. 

Here is one for you, as usual, Maud,” 
said Justina, handing her the precious mis- 
sive. 

Maud took it, and, saying Good-night,” 
went up to her own room to read it alone. 

‘‘ Shall I read this letter aloud, Philip ?” 
said Justina. 

Yes, certainly,” he replied. 

Justina began. After giving the home- 
news, Mrs. Heathcote went on to say, 

I have a piece of strange news for you : 
Dr. Thornton is to start by this steamer for 
the United States. You may wonder, why he 
goes back after such a short stay. It is on a 
very important mission indeed. He has been 
quite ill lately, and from a few words which 
he let fall my husband gathered that there 


284 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


was something on his mind which prevented 
him from settling to his work. When he was 
able to talk, he frankly confessed that he had 
left his heart in New York. Dr. Heath cote 
advised him to go back and see if he could 
find it ; I sincerely hope he may be success- 
ful in his search. He is a noble man and 
deserves to be happy. Maud is to come back 
with him. Dear Justina, she is so young, 
and knows so little yet ; will you not add to 
your many kindnesses that of seeing that 
she is properly provided with what she 
needs ? It is late and there is so much to 
do. Good-bye.” 

What does it mean ?” said Justina, a 
little puzzled. “ I wonder if you take from 
it what I do ?” 

“ What is that ?” asked Philip. 

“That Dr. Thornton is coming for the 
purpose of making Maud his wife.” 

“ It does look that way, but she was a mere 
child when he saw her.” 

“Not exactly,” said Justina; “she was 
almost seventeen. Oh, that is just what 
Mrs. Heath cote means. Well, he will get 
a treasure.” 


A MISUNBEBSTANBIJVG. 


285 


Only a few days later Dr. Thornton him- 
self arrived. Those were pleasant days. 
There were quite a number of concerts and 
missionary meetings to attend, and Justina, 
Maud and Dr. Thornton went everywhere 
together. 

“I suppose,’’ said Justina to Philip, “he 
takes me along for a chaperone. He doesn’t 
want to frighten Maud by being too pre- 
cipitate.” 

In those walks and in the pleasant even- 
ings that followed, in their talks over mission 
work at home and abroad, Philip and Jus- 
tina learned to know Dr. Thornton and to 
admire him exceedingly. 

“ He is a disappointment to me as a lover, 
though,” confessed Justina to her brother 
one evening. “ He must have wonderful 
control over himself for a man who is in 
search of a heart which has been lost for 
some three years.” 

At last matters came to a crisis, however. 
Philip was absent later than usual, Maud 
was indisposed and asked to be excused, and 
the doctor and Justina were the sole occu- 
pants of the parlor. 


286 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


When Justina had given Dr. Thornton 
Maud’s excuses, he said quickly, 

I am very glad of this opportunity to 
speak to you alone. Mrs. Heathcote wrote 
you something of my reasons for coming 
home at this time, did she not?” 

‘‘Yes,” said Justina, wishing in her heart 
that he had gone direct to Maud herself. 
“ But I suppose,” she thought, “ he looks on 
me as her guardian, and thinks it would not 
be honorable to speak to her first.” 

“ And you did not consider me presump- 
tuous to think of such a thing ?” he contin- 
ued. 

“ No ; why should I ?” she asked. 

Dr. Thornton looked surprised at Justin a’s 
prompt affirmative answer. He said in his 
heart, “ She can’t prevaricate, but I wish she 
would blush or tremble.” 

“I may dare to hope, then?” he said, 
slowly. 

“ Dr. Thornton,” said Justina, rising, “ you 
had better consult Maud herself. You have 
her mother’s permission ; surely you do not 
require mine, and I know nothing of her 
feelings.” 


A MISUNDI:BSTA^^J)I^^G. 


287 


^‘Her feelings I” he burst out. It seems 
you have entirely misunderstood me ; it is 
7/our feelings I am talking about. Did you 
suppose it was with Maud that I left my 
heart when I went away ? No ; it is only 
yours.^’ 

“ But/’ she stammered, “ I understood from 
Mrs. Heath cote’s letter — ” 

‘^Can you let me see the letter?” said the 
doctor. “ If you look at it again, I think 
you will find that you were mistaken.” 

Justina turned to a drawer of her little 
secretary, took out the letter and handed it 
to Dr. Thornton. He read it, then gave it 
back to her. 

“ It is perhaps a little ambiguous, but she 
certainly had no thought of Maud. Will 
you please read it again ?” he said, gently. 

Justina did so. The doctor watched the 
soft flush that crept over her face. She laid 
down the letter and looked at him. 

Do you not see ?” he said. 

‘‘Yes,” she answered, briefly. 

“ The truth of the matter is this : I would 
have asked you to go with me when I first 
went had you not been a rich woman. I 


288 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


should not have let that weigh, but I did, 
and went away. When Dr. Heathcote 
found it out, he told me I was a coward, and 
that it was an insult to a woman like you to 
suppose that you would refuse a man merely 
on account of his poverty. I humbly beg 
your pardon for having done so, but now I 
must ask you for an answer.” 

Dr. Thornton,” Justina said, ‘‘ I am not 
prepared to give you an answer just now. 
Ever since this letter came I have looked 
upon you as Maud’s lover; it will take 
some little time to shake off that impression. 
I have been acting chaperone this time.” 

‘‘‘Chaperone said the doctor, with a smile. 
‘‘ You look like one. Then you do not abso- 
lutely forbid me to hope ?” 

No,” said Justina, slowly ; ‘‘ but if I do 
refuse, it will not be because of money.” 

I am going away for a while,” said Dr. 
Thornton, ‘‘to give some lectures out West 
on our work. Will you allow me to write 
to you?” 

“ Yes,” she said. 

The doctor rose. 

I have wearied you,” he said ; “ I will go 


A MISUJVDFBSTA^^I)ING. 


289 


now. I shall not see you again till I come 
back. Good-bye.” 

Dr. Thornton’s absence was the best help 
his suit could have had. Justina learned 
more of him through his letters than she 
had done while he was with her in person, 
for she no longer thought of him as Maud’s 
lover. But a struggle began in her heart, for 
she found herself inclining more and more to 
him, while she asked herself, Is it right to 
leave Philip ?” She was careful to say noth- 
ing to Philip of what had passed ; if she 
did sacrifice her future happiness to him, 
he should never know it. 

As for Maud, she was half sad and half 
happy in preparing for her journey home- 
ward. 

“It seems tome,” said Philip, one day, 
“ that Maud does not take the absence of her 
cavalier much to heart.” 

“ That was all a mistake, Philip,” said 
Justina; “it was not Maud to whom Mrs. 
Heathcote alluded.” 

“ Ah ! that’s the secret of his lecturing-tour, 
is it ?” said Philip, sagely. “ Gone to look 
for his heart, eh ?” 


18 


290 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


‘‘I believe he expects to find some clue to 
it in that direction/’ answered Justina. 

By this time Justina had made up her 
mind by some feminine process of reasoning 
that, though she loved Dr. Thornton and 
would be miserable without him, yet it was 
her duty to make herself miserable for 
Philip’s sake. Dr. Thornton, however, did 
not get back, as he had hoped, in the fall. 
His old enemy, malarial fever, attacked him, 
and he was not able to begin his work till 
late in the season. Finding himself unable 
to start back before the next spring, he 
thought it best to spend the greater part of 
the winter in the West. That fever was also 
a powerful ally. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

IN THE DRIFTS. 

A ND now we must go back to Hilda. She 
had kept on steadily with her work, but 
it was astonishing to see how much personal 
oversight the special work among the immi- 
grants required from Philip after meeting 
with Miss Arr.’’ There were so many 
things about which no one but Hilda could 
tell him, and so many times that he happened 
to be going just in the same direction that 
she was going ! 

It was midwinter — a fearful day ; Hilda 
for the first time hesitated about going out. 
There was a fierce wind blowing, and the 
snow was whirling through the streets, blind- 
ing the few passengers and drifting against 
the walls. She opened the door and looked 
out, then half turned to go back. She 
looked out again, and said to herself, ‘‘I 

291 


292 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


think it is calmer than it was ; the wind will 
go down after a little. I cannot bear to dis- 
appoint the poor creatures.’’ With a shiver 
Hilda plunged into the intense cold. She 
fought her way along bravely, but found 
herself almost alone. Half minded to go 
back, she stopped undecided. It will take 
as long to go back as to go on now,” she 
said, ‘‘ and I can stay at the home and send 
them word.” Onward a little longer, but 
she was chilled through now and her feet 
were growing numb. A wilder blast than 
any she had yet encountered lifted her off 
her feet and whirled her literally into the 
arms of some one coming from an opposite 
direction. 

I beg your pardon — ” began the stranger. 

Mr. St. John !” said Hilda as she ]*ecog- 
nized the voice. 

“ Hildegarde, I came expressly because I 
feared you would be mad enough to venture 
out. Why did you do it ?” 

‘‘Please don’t scold me,” she said, with 
just a suspicion of tears in her voice. “ I 
was very foolish, but I don’t believe I could 
bear to be scolded just now.” 


IN THE DRIFTS. 


293 


Philip laughed a little hysterically as he 
drew Hilda’s hand through his arm : 

“ Let us try if we can find the way home 
together.” 

There was no time nor strength for words ; 
all the energies of Philip and Hilda were 
taxed to keep their feet and to find the right 
turnings. It was dark — for the short winter’s 
day had drawn to a close — when they stood 
on the broad steps of the Kuthven mansion, 
the first time Philip St. John had stood 
there since he had left the house after his 
last interview with Corinna. 

“ Come in, Mr. St. John,” said Hilda ; 
“you cannot get home through this storm.” 

“ One minute,” said Philip, as Hilda was 
about to ring the bell. “ I cannot trust you 
alone any longer ; will you let me take care 
of you always, Hildegarde ?” 

“ Yes, Philip.” The words were very low, 
but Philip’s ear caught them. 

“ Then I shall see your father before I go,” 
he said as he rang the bell. 

Mrs. Kuthven herself came to the door, 
for she had been uneasy from the time she 
learned that Hilda had gone out. 


294 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


‘‘ Why, Hilda !” she exclaimed ; but Hilda 
sank exhausted into one of the hall-chairs. 

‘‘ Let me help her into the drawing-room,’^ 
said Philip, ‘‘ and then we will tell you all 
about it.” 

Hilda was very white when she was seated 
in one of the easy-chairs and her wraps were 
taken off. 

Mrs. Puthven rang for tea ; and when she 
came back, Philip stood by Hilda with her 
hand in his, while she looked up at him with 
eyes that told the whole tale. 

‘‘Do you think you can give me Hilde- 
garde?”* 

“ What does she say herself?” asked Mrs. 
Puthven. 

“ Mamma,” said Hilda, “ you are not very ’ 
kind to Mr. St. John ; he needs rest as much 
as I do. Had it not been for him, I could 
never have gotten home again.” 

“Well, I suppose he has fairly earned 
you,” said her mother. — “ Do sit down, Mr. 
St. John. How stupid of me to leave you 
standing all this time!” 

“ Is Mr. Puthven in ?” asked Philip. “ I 
had better see him at once.” 


IN THE DRIFTS. 


295 


“ Yes ; if you choose, I will take you in 
just now. He did not attempt to go out at 
all to-day.’’ 

Mrs. Ruthven and Philip went together to 
the library, where the lights were burning 
dim and where Mr. Ruthven himself was 
dozing in his arm-chair. 

“ Mr. Ruthven,” said his wife, giving him 
a little shake, “ here is Mr. St. John wanting 
to see you.” 

Eh ? Who ?” he said, rubbing his eyes 
and not yet half awake. St. John ? About 
that business of Cora’s ? Tell him — ” 

Another shake brought Mr. Ruthven to 
consciousness of time and place, and he rose, 
bowing a little stiffly as he took Philip’s prof- 
fered hand. 

I have come, Mr. Ruthven,” said St. John, 
‘‘ to ask you for Hildegarde.” 

- What !” said the father. I did not know 
that you were acquainted with Hilda.” 

I was not till lately,” said Philip ; “ had 
I been, I might have made this request 
sooner.” 

‘‘ Mr. Ruthven,” said his wife, in a low 
tone, ‘‘ you may as well say ‘Yes.’ Hilda 


296 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


has been a good girl to us, and she ought to 
have her wish. I am sure she will be very 
happy. Besides, it is very little use to op- 
pose her when she has set her heart on any- 
thing, and she will never marry any one 
else.’’ 

And as the father, perhaps remembering 
that those of his daughters who had made 
matches after his own heart were evidently 
not as happy as his odd daughter, and withal 
having at the core of his heart a thorough 
respect for the consistent Christian life of 
that same daughter, said “Yes” to Philip’s 
petition. 

It was out of the question for Philip to go 
home that night; so, trusting that Justina 
would believe him safe, he accepted the invi- 
tation given him to spend the night where 
he was. Hilda went early to bed, and the 
next morning was down in time to pour out 
Philip’s coffee for him before he started to 
assure Justina of his safety. 

Justina was waiting breakfast for him, sup- 
posing that he had stayed at the office. She 
was not prepared for the radiant face with 
which he greeted her, and still less for the 


IN THE DRIFTS. 


297 


announcement with which he startled her as 
soon as their greetings were over : 

Justina, I have found my wife.’’ 

“ Philip ! Your wife !” she echoed, in 
astonishment. ‘‘ Where did you find her ?” 

In the drifts,” he said, drawing his chair 
up to the table and preparing to do justice 
to the snug little breakfast. 

“ And who is she ?” asked Justina, think- 
ing that Philip was joking. 

‘‘ Hildegarde Ruthven,” he said. 

“ Are you in earnest, Philip ?” asked J us- 
tina, coming to his side. 

“I’m in real earnest,” he replied, and 
went on to tell her the circumstances. 

Philip was hardly prepared for the effect 
the relation had on Justina; she cried and 
laughed by turns till he began to be alarmed. 
This had cut the knot of her perplexities. 

“Well, well!” she said, when she had 
again recovered control of herself “ Truly, 
as Jean said, ‘ whan sic things are to be, they 
jist arrange themsel’s.’ ” 

That evening’s mail carried out West a 
note which read thus : 


298 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


‘‘Deak Alvan: Are you never coming 
home? Justina/’ 

It was a very short time till Dr. Thornton 
answered the note in person. 

Philip’s wedding was first. 

‘‘ No one but ourselves and mamma, and 
no formality,” pleaded Hilda. ‘‘ It is a mat- 
ter which does not concern outsiders.” 

Mrs. Euthven was very glad it was to be 
so, as it would have been extremely awkward 
to have had a fashionable company to witness 
a wedding conducted on unfashionable prin- 
ciples. 

The first morning Hilda St. John spent in 
her new home she took up the newspaper 
after breakfast. Her eyes fell on a marriage 
notice : Edward Beverly of Boston and 

Mary Linden, also of Boston.” 

“ That was all that was wanting to com- 
plete my happiness,” she said, pointing out 
the notice to her husband. 

‘‘ Why did you not go with him to Boston, 
Hildegarde ?” he asked. ‘‘ He was a splen- 
did fellow.” 

“ My heart was not a vacuum even then,” 


IN THE DRIFTS. 


299 


said Hilda; “it was occupied by you, my 
hero of heroes.” 

Soon afterward Dr. Thornton and Justina 
were married and went to their Oriental home. 

There is little more to tell. As Philip’s 
family increased, so did his expenses increase 
too, and he occupied a larger house, but he ad- 
hered strictly to his rule of giving away every 
cent of his income except what he spent in 
his plain way of living. Mrs. Puthven 
wished Philip and Hilda to move back into 
the fashionable part of the city, but they 
wisely thought that they could do more good 
where they could see more plainly the needs 
of those about them. Their years were spent 
in finding out work to do for the Master, not 
only in their own country, but also in heathen 
lands. Mr. E-uthven often found himself 
under the necessity of apologizing for the 
vagaries of these children of his, and gener- 
ally wound up by saying, 

“ When one starts on a career of fanati- 
cism, you never know where he will stop. 
Now, if every man of wealth were to follow 
out these visionary ideas, where would be the 
boasted wealth of our country?” 


300 


PHILIP ST. JOHN. 


Where, indeed? Not in splendid build- 
ings and pictures and silver and gold plate, 
in jewelry and extravagant dress, in high 
living and glittering show, but in men and 
women fitted for citizenship not only in free 
America, but also in that better country 
above — in souls redeemed by their means 
from every kingdom and tongue and nation. 
Alas that such fanatics are so rare ! 


THE END. 









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